DRACO DORMIENS NUNQUAM TITILLANDUS
by potterism
Summary: PostHBP seventh year novella. Draco & Hermione romance subplot chaps. 1,6,8,9,11,12
1. The Lord at Azkaban

HP7:

_A Septology Finale_

Diclaimer: JKR, not me

A/N: Reviews & criticism welcome ...

― CHAPTER ONE ―

**A Dark Meeting**

Somewhere in the middle of the North Sea, invisible to the ordinary human eye, which would see only churning pitch-black waves and perhaps an odd concentration of shrouding mists, was a small island. The summer night air surrounding it was deathly cold, and despite the gusts of winds that blew from all directions against it, strangely silent. Except for one sound: a low, rasping chorus of breathing, issuing from tall hooded silhouettes that, like an impenetrable black circle, ringed the massive grey stone walls of that which rose looming upon the island: the Fortress of Azkaban.

A faint crimson glow emanated from the fortress' topmost tower, cast by blood-coloured flames dancing on torches in the chamber within. However, this light was confined to either side of a raised platform at the head of the room –the rest of the vast vaulted space vanished into shadows, creating the sense of a void; thus making the illuminated throne atop the platform all the more prominent: carved out of solid obsidian and crowned with an enormous serpent head whose eyes were set with glittering rubies. The figure sitting in the throne was almost indistinguishable from it: draped in dark robes, he had a snakelike face and eyes like slits that gleamed red. At his feet a live snake lay asleep, its long thick body wound in ebony coils, completing the third serpentine image like some unholy trinity.

"Master, they are arrived," said a voice from the empty darkness of the room, in a slightly whiny tone, addressing the enthroned figure.

A cold, high voice spoke. "Have my Dementors bid them entrance. Escort them here –_wandless_."

"Yes, Master," answered the whiner, bowing low and immediately scurrying towards the door. Once outside, his expression of fear changed to relief as he scampered down the spiral tower staircase and across the paved courtyard to the heavy iron front gates, beyond which a row of Azkaban's faceless guards floated eerily. He undid the enchantment binding the gates, and the Dementors, drawing icy rattling breaths, parted to let three cloaked men pass through. After casting a relocking spell, the escort jerked his head at each of the visitors in greeting as they followed him back into the building that was formerly an infamous prison, but now served as the 'unplottable' headquarters of The Dark Order.

"Wands, please, gentlemen," the short ratlike man simpered, stretching out a tarnished silver hand that blended seamlessly with his arm.

All three glared contemptuously at him from under their masks, but nonetheless complied. One of the wizards, who had almost colorless eyes, remarked with a sneer, "Quite the steward, aren't you, Wormtail? Would you like to check in our cloaks as well?"

"If you find the Dark Lord's orders questionable, you can tell him in person, Malfoy!" Wormtail retorted, twitching. He pointed at the arch leading to the tower. "Don't keep Him waiting."

The ice-pale eyes narrowed, but the man whirled abruptly around and began ascending the steep stone steps, followed by his two companions. Presently they reached the door at the top and knocked; after a moment it dissolved and the men crossed into the dark chamber. When they neared the pool of light at the end of the room, all three immediately sank to their knees, masked heads bowed, murmuring: "My Lord."

The black snake, Nagini, sensing their presence, had awakened and was now gliding around her commander's throne.

"Come forth, Lucius," said Lord Voldemort.

Lucius Malfoy rose swiftly, and lowering his hood while keeping his gaze cast down, stepped into view. The torchlight glimmered on his long platinum hair as he waited in deference.

"Though you twice failed me –" Voldemort put a dangerous emphasis on the next word _"_–_grievously_" (an imperceptible shudder ran through Lucius' tall frame as he recalled the atonement for his failures), "and your resulting imprisonment incurred a year-long lapse in my service … "

Lucius winced at yet other memories; Voldemort, smiling unpleasantly, continued, "… you have since redeemed the Malfoy name with your inspired breakout and subsequent storming and seizing of this fortress, whose ancient and powerful defenses will serve us well in wartime." Voldemort's high voice grew colder. "Therefore, take your reward: my full pardon, for the debt you owe of thirteen years of faithlessness during my exile."

Lucius bowed deeply. "I am beholden to your mercy, my Lord. You have my eternal loyalty."

Having received a long-fingered wave of dismissal, Lucius resumed his place as the next summons echoed through the room: "Send the boy."

A slimmer figure now approached the platform, unhooded to reveal the same sleek blond head and downcast grey eyes as the previous man, but a pale face much more youthful.

"Draco," said Voldemort slowly, as if savoring the taste of the word. "My youngest Death Eater … ah, yet still uninitiated in the fearless acts of Deatheating?"

Trembling slightly, Draco Malfoy whispered, "F-forgive me, Dark Lord!"

"I am pleased that you made it possible for the Dark Mark to blaze over the corpse of your late Headmaster, even if he did not die at your hand … as was my express wish."

There was a heavy silence. Draco was having difficulty breathing.

"You must prove yourself, Draco," said the icy voice quietly.

"Command me," said the boy, white-faced. "I –I am stronger now."

Voldemort laughed chillingly. "For your mother's sake, I hope you will not disappoint me this time."

Draco grew even paler, but steeled himself to reply in a reverent tone, "What is my task, my Lord?"

"You will return to Hogwarts this fall, under the pretext of repentance, and pleading trauma at having witnessed your mother's murder by your father. You will play the part of disillusioned, remorseful, hunted runaway, and thus reinstate yourself in the good graces of the staff and students."

Draco breathed more easily. This didn't sound as bad as he'd feared.

"Your object is to learn the whereabouts of the Order of the Phoenix headquarters."

Draco's head snapped up in surprise but he instantly dropped his eyes again away from the sight of that grotesque masklike face.

"The fall of the Order's leader has necessitated a new Secret Keeper; my sources tell me it is the Potter brat's mudblood friend. You must grow intimate with her, gain her confidence, and thereby elicit the information. Then you will bring the girl to me as hostage."

"_Intimate_, my Lord?" Draco's pale eyes widened. "With _Granger_?"

"The Fidelity Charm cannot be penetrated using the Imperious Curse nor by any other means of coercion," said Voldemort impatiently. "The secret can only be divulged willingly."

"But –she'll never –I can't –"

"Cease that sputtering at once!" His voice slashed the air like a knife. "You have until the end of winter to comply. Your mother will be removed from Malfoy Manor and concealed here should the Ministry decide to investigate your tale of conversion, and," he added with a sinister note, "to ensure that you will exert your utmost will in succeeding."

"Y-yes, my Lord," gulped Draco, stumbling back with a half-bow to stand beside his father. Lucius threw him a reproachful frown.

"She is merely a schoolgirl," he drawled, glaring at Draco. "I am certain my son will press his every _advantage_ to fulfill his master's orders."

Draco nodded stiffly.

There was another silence as Nagini slithered up to the third man, and began circling him.

"Leave us," commanded Voldemort.

The Malfoys made their final obeisances and duly exited the chamber. Tossing back his hood, the last cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, stony-faced and silent.

"Look at me, my assassin." The words were spoken in a soft hiss.

The black eyes of Severus Snape slowly turned up to lock on Voldemort's scarlet gaze. An eternity seemed to pass before the latter finally pronounced, "You feel … gratified at the demise of our enemy."

"The Dark Lord's mindpower is, as ever," Snape inclined his head. "Infallible."

"In ascertaining raw emotions, yes … but I require you to elaborate." The cold voice took on a taunting edge. "Tell me, Severus, how did it feel to look into the eyes of that old fool, who trusted you wholeheartedly, and commit the ultimate betrayal by uttering the fatal curse?"

"I felt hatred," said Snape. "And revulsion."

"For whom?" asked Voldemort shrewdly. "Dumbledore … or yourself?"

"For he who dared challenge my master's supremacy," replied Snape evenly. "In claiming to be 'The Only One He Ever Feared,' and who championed" –here Snape's lips curled into a sneer –"my master's nemesis, designating him with the even more delusional title of 'The Chosen One' prophesized to be the downfall –"

"Enough!" snarled Voldemort. "These epithets are anathema to me!"

Snape's features remained stoic.

"Very well, your noble allegiance merits tribute above my entire army." With a lazy wave of Voldemort's long black wand, a luminous silver serpent-shaped crest emblazoned itself over the Dark Mark on Snape's left forearm. "You are my second-in-command, faithful Death Eater."

"Your Lordship honors me far too greatly," murmured Snape, sweeping down to brush his lips against the hem of the seated wizard's robes.

"As such," said Voldemort in a spine-chilling whisper. "I entrust you with the most privileged of missions."

Snape waited, head bowed, black hair falling into his face.

"_You will deliver Potter to me_."

Severus Snape raised his eyes once more to stare into the blood-red pupils that burned with a maniacal glint. A slow smile spread over his face.

"With pleasure, my Lord."


	2. His Mother's Best Friend

― CHAPTER TWO ―

**His Mother's Best Friend**

At number four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter was jarred awake by the burning of the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. He had been dreaming about the two people he loathed most in the world, the murderers of his parents and of his beloved mentor. In the nightmare, Voldemort had been praising Snape for killing Dumbledore, and then said something else –it was fading already –that made Snape smile …

Harry groaned. Whatever Snape was smiling like that about could not bode well. Fury and resentment coursed through Harry's body as he remembered the ex-Potions Master's sallow face contorted with hatred just before the green flash of light exploded from his wand … _No, I can't think about that right now_, Harry told himself. _I have to focus on the present, and what lies ahead … _

All notions of sleep driven away, Harry sat up in bed, his untidy black hair even more rumpled than usual, and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. He glanced at the clock: it was midnight. He had exactly twenty-four hours left of being underage in the wizarding world –at this time tomorrow, he would turn seventeen.

_Which means goodbye to the Dursleys forever, _thought Harry elatedly. Then his face fell. Leaving his aunt and uncle's home meant losing the protection that his mother's blood had been shed for, the only thread that remained connecting Harry to his lost family. He was quite alone now; despite the pledges of his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who wanted to accompany him on his forthcoming quest of destroying a mortal Voldemort, Harry had no wish to endanger the lives of any more of his loved ones. _Too many people have already died because of me_.

Shaking his head to clear it of the webs of pessimism that threatened, as they had been doing all summer, to turn into morbid depression, Harry picked up a heavy leatherbound book from the floor by his bed. Dusty gold lettering in an antiquated script on its cover read _Magick Moste Evile_. Harry had been studying this manual to the Dark Arts –a gift from his former (and favorite) Defense instructor, Professor Lupin –as a guide to preparing himself for what he might encounter when facing the Death Eaters and their Lord. _Know thy enemy_: Harry chanted the maxim like a mantra these days.

So far he had covered the chapters dealing with seven branches of "black sorcery" that corresponded, oddly enough, to the seven deadly sins in the Muggle version of evildoing. The illegal curses for killing and torture were classified as _Wrath_, the Imperious was under _Pride_, and there was even a Seduction enchantment for _Lust_. Although the text censored the topic of Horcruxes –objects that concealed a part of soul, ripped by killing –Harry had no trouble guessing that they bordered between Greed and Gluttony: stealing innocent life; craving excessive existence

_Or in other words,_ thought Harry bitterly, _eating death_.

He passed over the chapters on Dark Creatures, since he was already painfully familiar with the horrors of Dementors and Inferi, as well as less horrific but equally undesirable species of trolls, dragons, arachnids, werewolves, and … suddenly, an interesting heading caught his eye.

Harry stared at the word. _Serpentry_.

A kaleidoscope of images began tumbling through his mind. The duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic two years ago, where Voldemort had brandished a huge, hissing, whiplike snake in midair, its venomous fangs ready to strike … his own duel with Draco Malfoy, in their second year, Malfoy yelling '_Serpentsortia_' … Harry's ability to speak Parceltongue, snake language, a legacy from the Heir of Slytherin … Riddle's basilisk, whose gaze was lethal … the Dark Mark, which was a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth … and of course, the possibility that Nagini, Voldemort's cherished pet snake, might be a Horcrux …

_Serpentry is Voldemort's signature_ _Dark Art_, Harry realized. If this was his enemy's forte, then Harry would have to educate himself in it thoroughly, mastering both offensive and defensive spells.

With an unexpected jolt he recalled Snape's words from that last fateful night. "_Blocked again, and again, and again, until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!"_ As much as Harry hated admitting it, Snape had been right. Harry's non-verbal spellcasting skills were not up to par even by N.E.W.T. standards, much less for attack or defense against a wizard known to be the world's most powerful Legilimens.

A soft hoot interrupted Harry's musings. He leapt to the window to let in his beautiful snowy owl, whose arrival he had been eagerly anticipating.

"Thanks, Hedwig," said Harry, feeding his bird a chocolate-covered grasshopper after he had untied the piece of parchment from her leg. She regarded him with serene amber eyes, flew onto her perch, and tucked her wings into sleeping position.

It was a very cryptic letter, short and unsigned, but Harry recognized Ron's messy scrawl and grinned as he interpreted the good news:

_**Birthday Boy, **_

_**Operation "Muggle Liberation" 23:59 tomorrow**_

_**Keeper King & Cat Woman**_

They were keeping their promise to show up for his final departure from this house, then! Harry felt a drowsy wave of contentment wash over him … suddenly, his bed looked inviting again.

>

>

The next morning, as Harry walked into the kitchen for breakfast, he was surprised to see Aunt Petunia sitting alone at the table, staring listlessly down into a teacup clutched in her bony hand. When she heard the door closing, she glanced up and mumbled, "Good morning, Harry."

Harry was so taken aback at this unprecedented greeting, that he gaped at her for a moment or two before managing to reply, "Er –morning Aunt Petunia."

She returned to perusing her teacup in a way that reminded Harry uncannily of Professor Trelawney. Wary but curious, Harry poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down at the other side of the table.

For awhile, there was no sound except Harry munching on oat bran. Then, he heard Aunt Petunia sniffing. He looked at her, and, as unexpectedly as would have been seeing a snowstorm in July, saw that her red-rimmed eyes were looking tearfully into his own green ones.

"Lily's eyes …" she moaned.

Could it be … _She's crying because I'm leaving_?

Harry had no idea what to do. He nervously cleared his throat and, touching his aunt's bony finger hesitantly, asked, "Are you, um, O.K.?"

She shuddered, but did not pull her hand away.

Harry was beginning to feel slightly panicky. What had happened to make his mother's sister, who for all his life had despised and belittled him, now consent to his comforting her as she cried? He tried again, "Tell me, please, Aunt Petunia … what's wrong?"

"Voldemort," she whispered shakily.

For the third time in barely ten minutes, Harry was stunned. Involuntarily, his grip had tightened on Aunt Petunia's hand the moment she had pronounced the name that only a dozen people he knew dared to speak.

"What about him?" he said, his throat dry.

His aunt's eyes refocused on him as if suddenly registering Harry's presence. "N-nothing!" she cried shrilly, snatching her hand away and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I just thought if –I was remembering –oh, never mind!"

It struck Harry that this was his chance, perhaps his only chance ever, to question Aunt Petunia about her memories of his mother. He gazed at her beseechingly.

"Auntie, _please_ … my mum, I'll never know her –" his voice caught. "I need to know what you, her sister, remember … "

Now he was the one blinking back tears. Aunt Petunia sighed.

"I suppose since you're leaving, and," she grimaced. "We are –well, blood, after all …" She wrapped her fingers firmly around her teacup and took a sip of what must have been extremely cold tea.

"What do you want to know?"

Harry's heart soared. He blurted in a rush, "What was she like? What did she say of my father when they were at school? What did she tell you about the Dark Order or the Order of the Phoenix? What … what did she say about me when she was alive?"

Aunt Petunia's horseish features drew into a frown. "I've already told you, Lily was the golden girl in our family. Always _sunny_, and _talented_, and oh-so-" her sarcastic tone faltering, she swallowed. "Sweet." Her eyes grew misty again. "My baby sister was the friend I never had again."

Harry felt something in him ache, but said nothing.

"And then –that Potter came along and married her and I refused to see her on their wedding day or after it! I couldn't bear to have that kind of abnormality in my life, especially since I was engaged to Vernon and he disapproved direly of them."

Harry nodded wearily. He had heard this part a thousand times and it no longer angered him. "But how did you hear of Voldemort … ?"

"I don't know anything about that!" Aunt Petunia's voice went up an octave. "Just that he –he took her life, he was evil, he was after you … all explained in a letter left by that bizarre old man with the long beard, the one who was here last year." She shuddered, apparently at the recollection of Dumbledore's visit to Privet Drive, which had included watching the hysterics of a grubby house-elf on her spotless living room rug.

"Yeah, well, he's here no longer," Harry muttered sullenly.

Aunt Petunia gave him a disdainful look, as if Harry was stating a quite obvious fact just for the pleasure of irking her.

"Wait," said Harry, remembering Dumbledore's Howler sent to his aunt and the conversation that followed it. "You knew about Azkaban! What else did you overhear my dad saying to my mum that day?"

"I never said it was Potter," said Aunt Petunia. "That happened well before Lily met him, during Christmas holiday one year when she brought her best friend home, an awful, creepy, greasy boy named Severus …"

"You mean Sirius," Harry corrected automatically.

"I know what I mean, boy!" she snapped. "I remember his name distinctly because it matched him so well … that nose was severe indeed …"

Harry felt as if the room was spinning. He clutched the edges of the table to steady himself, and spat, "Severus … Snape?"

"Yes, that was his surname," Aunt Petunia nodded distastefully.

"You say … you say he was my mum's _best friend_?"

"Are you hard of hearing? Of course I did! They were inseparable, Lily and 'Sev' as she called him, his name was all over her letters from school, until … for some reason, in her last year, she cut off the friendship. Came to her senses about freaks, it seems." As an afterthought, she added darkly, "Only to take it up with Potter."

Harry's mind was reeling. So this is why Snape had delivered his parents to their death. Not because he hated James, but because he wanted revenge on Lily for choosing James over him! Desecrated her friendship! He hated the man with such intensity that he thought he might be sick all over the breakfast table.

"Harry … what ever is the matter?"

Aunt Petunia was gawking at him with eyes as round as her teacup saucer. Harry just grunted and, standing, muttered, "I need to go."

He left his baffled aunt sitting with her frozen tea as he rushed outside, into the bright sunlight on the perfectly kept green lawn, where he sat down by a line of ants, and, picturing each black ant as a miniscule black-robed Snape, changed his mantra. "_Avada Kedavra_," he repeated, over and over, practicing, letting the spell burn into his repertoire.


	3. Dursleys to Weasleys

― CHAPTER THREE ―

**Dursleys to Weasleys**

**>**

At eleven-forty five that evening, Harry was just snapping shut the lid of his trunk –which for once, was packed neatly, robes folded, spellbooks laid flat, galleons tucked in a pouch –and locking Hedwig in her cage, when he heard two explosive cracking noises downstairs, followed by Uncle Vernon's bellow of "You're early!" Hurriedly, Harry pulled a sweater over his head and grabbed his things. He paused for a fleeting look around the room that had felt like a solitary cell to him for the past six summers (_Dobby banging the lamp against his head, the glare of headlights from a flying blue car at his window, Tonks in front of the mirror morphing her hair color _…) and then, taking three stairs at a time, sprinted into the living room.

Ron and Hermione, dressed in the strangest-looking attires Harry had ever seen them wear, were standing awkwardly by the front door, twiddling with their wands, totally unaware of the distressing effect this act was having on the three Dursleys, who stood huddled together at a guarded distance, looking sideways at the recently-Apparated young witch and wizard.

"Harry!" Hermione beamed, flying at him in a whirl of brown curls and sparkly robes. He hugged her and drawing back, raised a quizzical eyebrow at her star-spangled pink pointed hat. "Er –your hair looks nice …"

She winked conspiratorially.

Bemused, Harry turned to clasp hands with Ron whose flaming-red shag cut touched the shoulders of his floor-length army camouflage robes. "Happy seventeenth, mate." Ron grinned at Harry as he stuck his wand into a crossbow-style sling strapped across his chest.

"Yes, congratulations for your legality to use magic the world over," said Hermione. "You can Apparate back to the Burrow with us!" Then, addressing the Dursleys with a wide, bright smile, "Aren't you going to wish Harry a happy coming-of-age birthday?"

Aunt Petunia and Dudley blinked stupidly, and Uncle Vernon, who had hit an all-time high shade of puce, growled, "Yes, yes, many wishes and best returns and all that rot, boy, now … get on with it! Go … and don't ever disturb the peace of this household again!"

Harry hadn't expected anything less from his aunt's husband, so he set his jaw and replied, "Thanks, I don't think I will."

Dudley was still eyeing Hermoine's wand and now-stern expression, and seemed to decide that courtesy would be safer than mockery in sending off his cousin. He extended a bloated hand. "So long … and, uh, thanks for not letting the Dementoids suck out my soul."

Mentally chuckling at his cousin's bravado for thanking him in front of his fuming father, Harry shook Dudley's hand and lastly turned to Aunt Petunia. Her face seemed to be negotiating between a puckered frown and a thin-lipped smile. Finally, the smile won out and she briefly squeezed Harry's shoulder.

"Farewell, Harry," she whispered. "And good luck with … with You-Know-Who."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron's eyebrows shoot up at hearing a Muggle use … well, wizard slang.

"Thanks, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. "For keeping me safe in your home … and, er –I'll send an owl when He falls."

Before Uncle Vernon could finish his outburst of "The deuce yo–" Harry had gestured to his friends, and, with a dramatic synchronized _Crack!_ they all Disapperated, leaving the occupants of number four, Privet Drive, gaping in their vanished wake.

>

>

>

"Didn't splinch anything, didya?"

Harry shook out limbs that felt like they'd been steamrolled. The three of them had reappeared in Ron's bedroom. "Not even half an eyelash," he grinned.

"That was a bloody _brilliant_ exit –I bet your uncle's eardrums are still ringing!"

"It did have a certain panache," said Hermione with a small smile.

"What's with the get-ups, though? Malkin's fall/winter collection?"

"It was Hermione's idea," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "_Themed rescue Team_. Didn't you get my note?"

"Yeah, but –" Harry gestured at the camouflage and pink. "Not exactly Quidditch mitt and catsuit, are they?"

"Well, _Ron_ wanted to scare the Dursleys into thinking he was a guerilla warrior," said Hermione, shooting Ron a retaliatory smirk. "And I tried to transfigure my robes into looking slinky and glossy, but they ended up rather Batman-esque."

"So she settled for being a fairy princess," said Ron in a half-mocking, half-admiring voice.

"Wow –and we're supposed to be seniors this year?" laughed Harry.

Hermione smiled ruefully as she flicked her wand towards Ron and then at herself, turning their travelling robes back to plain black. "We _were_ supposed to be, yes."

Harry could see that it was breaking Hermione's heart to forgo the prospect of a heavy seventh-year curriculum, prefect duties, N.E.W.T. exams, and of course, graduation as top student. "You know for sure … Hogwart's closed?"

Ron shook his head. "We haven't heard yet."

"But even if it does reopen, Harry," said Hermione. "I've already told you, if you don't go back, neither shall we."

"We need to talk about that," mumbled Harry. "Let's just enjoy the last weeks of summer for now." His stomach gave a loud rumble. "And on that note, how about a midnight snack? I'm starved!"

"Sure … my mum's asleep, but Hermione is a whiz at ham n' eggs on toast … with this oozy yellow sauce …"

"'Eggs Benedict Carpaccio,'" said Hermione modestly.

As they made their way down the Burrow's rickety staircase to the kitchen, Harry asked casually, "Is Ginny sleeping too?"

"Not here," said Ron, shaking his head. "She's staying at the twin's flat in London until the wedding next week."

"Why?" Harry frowned.

"She felt it would be best for both of you," explained Hermione gently. "That seeing each other too much would only make it harder to part again."

Harry nodded miserably.

"Will of iron, that one," Ron said cheerfully, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if his friend was still protective of his younger sister.

Hermione had by this time conjured three mugs of foamy hot cocoa, set before them on the long wooden table, and was now busy charming her recipe ingredients. "By the way, Harry, how's your Dark Arts research coming along?"

"A lot of theory," said Harry. "Couldn't practice much, of course."

"Very funny," said Hermione. "I meant have you learned anything interesting?"

"Well, there was this bit about a wizard called the Marquis de Sade …" Harry caught a very McGonagallish look in Hermione's eyes and quickly said, "Alright, alright … I came across a topic that Voldemort is very well-versed in. Serpentry."

"As in controlling snakes?" said Ron.

"Yes, but it's much more complex …" Harry struggled to express what he had been reading that afternoon. "At its highest level, it's a kind of snake-charming power over others … spellbinding, hypnotic … I think he must use it to attract his Death Eaters."

"That sounds like the Imperious Curse."

"No," said Hermione thoughtfully, waving food-laden plates over as she joined them at the table. "The Imperious controls like a puppetmaster. Serpentry probably induces a sense of _wanting _to be controlled."

"Like a drug," nodded Harry. "Causing the addict to crave it even if it's dangerous or –"

"Drugs are to Muggles what potions are to us," Hermione interjected for Ron's benefit. "Actually, what they call 'recreational drugs' are the magical herbs we use in everyday potionmaking, which have no special effect on us, but on a Muggle mind they –"

"_Ensnare the senses_," Harry finished for her. "To quote my mother's treacherous friend."

"Your who's what?" Ron said incredulously.

"Our first Potions class …" Hermione said, looking confused.

"Aunt Petunia told me today," said Harry heavily. "In their Hogwarts days, Snape and my mum were apparently like the three of us … best friends. But then –"

Harry stopped, realizing he hadn't ever told Ron and Hermione about Snape's memory in the Pensieve. Though he didn't like exposing a side of his father that he was not proud of, his friends would have to know full details in order to help him analyze the triangle between Lily, James, and Snape. After quickly recounting the episode, Harry concluded, "So in seventh year, when my mum and dad started dating, she and Snape became estranged. And I think _that's_ why Snape wanted them to die."

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"But, mate, Dumbledore said Snape didn't know at the time who the prophecy concerned, and how was he to know that the parents of the child would be killed too?"

"Well," said Harry stubbornly. "Knowing the history with my parents, Dumbledore should never have believed Snape's bogus remorse story."

His friends had nothing to say to this.

"I don't get how your mum and Snape were friends, though," Ron said finally. "If he used to call her 'mudblood' in public?"

"That was probably because he felt the need to emasculate himself," Hermione said sagely. "Most boys wouldn't like being defended by a girl while being humiliated in front of …"

Her voice trailed off and Harry cringed. This was the part he dreaded: the fact that it was his father who had instigated the animosity with Snape.

"Still," said Ron. "A Gryffindor and a Slytherin –not exactly ideal bonding conditions, is it?"

"Potions," Harry murmured. "They shared a common talent … Slughorn must have noticed their intimacy, she was his favorite student! But he never told me, and neither did Dumbledore."

"They must have had their reasons," said Hermione. "Maybe there's more to the story than what we know."

Harry shrugged. "I don't care about details. The only thing that interests me is payback …" He clenched his teeth. "_Crucio_-style."

Ron whistled softly and Hermione looked scandalized.

"I have to train harder in Occlumency," Harry muttered, more to himself than to the other two. "So he won't be able to deflect the …"

"Um, Harry," Hermione spoke up timidly. "Can I say something?"

"Yeah?"

Her brown eyes were sombre. "I know Snape is a horrid man, but don't … don't think as V-Voldemort would." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't let your quest turn into a vendetta."

There was a brief interval of silence.

Clearing his throat as he pushed away his empty plate, Harry said, "That was the best birthday breakfast ever, Hermione." Turning to Ron, "Is it O.K. if I take Percy's old room? Sorry guys, it's been a long day."

"'Course," said Ron with a huge yawn. "I'm ready to crash myself … and princess here will want her beauty sleep."

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him, but was still eying Harry uneasily. There was a small vein throbbing on her friend's forehead that seemed to her quite unconnected with nocturnal fatigue.


	4. A Wizard Wedding

― CHAPTER FOUR ―

**A Wizard Wedding**

**>**

The next few days went by like a blur. But contrary to the customary summertime leisure pursuits of practicing Quidditch and horsing around with a houseful of young Weasleys, this August saw a subdued Burrow life, with Ron as the only child (Bill and Fleur were in France visiting the bride's family, Fred and George too busy with business to drop by, Percy and Ginny abstaining from domestic company, and Charlie … no one knew exactly where he was or why), and his parents quite often away, one at the Ministry, the other on wedding-planning errands.

Harry was glad of the quiet because it allowed him to concentrate on his self-imposed training agenda. Ron had given him, as a birthday gift, an official Auror handbook from the Ministry of Magic archives (dated pre-Fudge, when the Aurors fought at the height of anti-Dark tactics), which Harry read cover-to-cover. Hermione's present had been a bottle of perfectly-brewed Draught of Living Death potion, which she said she hoped he would never have occasion to use (but just as a precautionary measure, the dose would last up to four hours). His friends also helped him by brainstorming about the mystery of Voldemort's four remaining Horcruxes.

"I think Hogwarts was a choice hiding spot. Ancient, full of secrets, founded by his ancestor, the castle that was home to him and symbolic of magical knowledge … "

"It's kind of like a treasure hunt, innit? The map is You-Know-Who's brain … wish you still had access to his thoughts …"

"But how can Nagini be one? I would've seen a soul-encasing spell come out of his wand that night before Frank Bryce's spirit did …"

"A record of Ravenclaw's progeny at Hogwarts' library … maybe a descendant has a memory of some valuable artifact."

"Wonder if the R.A.B. bloke found any besides the locket?"

"And what exactly destroys them, assuming I get past the protective enchantments …"

And on and on.

>

>

>

The wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour was being held at Hymenae Gardens, amidst the natural splendor of lush wild countryside. Golden end-of-summer sunlight shone on a white gazebo altar wreathed in ivy and lilies, and a cool breeze stirred the soft morning air. It was a small, intimate gathering of fifty guests, presently seated in rows of damask-draped chairs facing the altar and chatting while they waited for the ceremony to begin.

Harry and Ron were loitering around the large tent that had been set up for the reception some hundred yards away, watching the behind-the-scenes mayhem: a frantic Mrs. Weasley dashed to and fro, waving her wand like a mad orchestra conductor, now screeching at Fred and George to change into dress robes ("Dragonhide at your brother's wedding! I'll skin _your_ hides if you do!"), now barking orders at her husband ("Arthur, stop fiddling with that muggle contraption! … No, I don't need you to enchant it to play Mendelssohn's March! Go get the nightingales!"), and occasionally peeking into a curtained-off area where her soon-to-be daughter-in-law was getting ready ("The tiara looks lovely, dear … do you have your 'something blue'?"). Thankfully, she was too worked-up to notice that her youngest son and his friend were doing nothing particularly helpful.

"Did you see Fleur's sister?" Ron asked Harry dreamily. "She's grown up … so curvy …"

The shapely figure of Gabrielle Delacour had not escaped Harry's notice, but he was more interested in getting a glimpse of another young, red-headed bridesmaid.

"How cool would it be to have _two_ hot veela sisters marry two, ahem, handsome Weasley brothers!"

Harry grinned slyly. "And maybe one best friend, a Weasley sister?"

The glaze-eyed expression on Ron's face instantly evaporated. Glancing at Harry's laughing eyes he scowled, "I s'pose so."

Just then the curtain flew back and Hermione stepped out, looking flustered. "I just finished doing Ginny's hair," she said, running a hand through her own long elegant curls. She used Silkifying potion-balm everyday now, but the improvement struck Harry afresh whenever he saw the un-bushyhaired Hermione.

"The ceremony is about to start," she added, zapping Ron's tie so it straightened into a crisp knot. "Let's go."

Outside, Harry and Hermione took seats in the second row on the groom's side while Ron joined his brothers standing as groomsmen beside a lightly-scarred but rugged-looking Bill Weasley. Harry recognized none of the foreign faces of the Delacour clan, but spotted Lupin, Tonks, Moody, and a few other Phoenix members among the guests and muttered to Hermione, "The only no-shows are Percy and Scrimgeour –no surprise."

"There's the High Priestess," Hermione whispered back excitedly, indicating a tall, stately turbaned witch behind a podium at the altar. "I can't wait to see a Christiopagan rite for the first time!"

She fell silent as strange melodious notes filled the air. A choir of small, brightly-colored birds was flying overhead, singing the sweetest music Harry had ever heard –_excepting Fawkes, of course_, he thought.

And then, before he physically saw her, Harry felt his stomach plunge. Twisting his neck, he saw that Gabrielle and Ginny were indeed walking down the aisle: Harry had eyes only for the latter; her ginger-and-cream coloring set off by the bright gold of her bridesmaid's dress, her straight back and slender bare shoulders, her smile and her eyes that were directed ahead … For a split second, Ginny's gaze flickered toward Harry's, and in that space it seemed that the long weeks of separation since their last day together in June closed –he could feel her so vividly that warmth radiated through his whole body, as if she were in his arms right now. Judging by the tinge that crept onto her face, his 'girlfriend on hiatus' sensed similarly. A Muggle expression Harry had always considered somewhat silly now occurred to him with yearning sobriety: _the heart remembers_.

The nightingales hit a crescendo to announce the coming of the bride. Heads swiveled. Men stared, transfixed. Women aahed. Fleur Delacour was a vision, luminous in a gown of translucent swaths of organza and shimmering silvery hair upswept under a sheer veil and diamond-encrusted tiara. She glided, rather than marched, to the altar, gracefully passing her bouquet to her sister before turning to face her betrothed.

The birdsong faded as the High Priestess raised her wand and drew the symbol of the cross to linger in a golden blaze over the couples' heads.

"Invocation of the god and goddess of love," explained Hermione in advance in Harry's ear. The Priestess began:

>

'_We call upon you in the guise of Eros,_

_Always desirous one,_

_We call upon you in the guise of Aphrodite, _

_Sensual lover, _

_To join us here and witness the union of William and Fleur_ …'

>

Smiling adoringly at each other, Bill and Fleur joined their left hands.

"Do you, Fleur, acknowledge before the Lord and Lady, and in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, your sworn bond this day forthwith to William Lance Weasley in the states of everlasting handfasting and holy matrimony?"

"_Oui_, with all my 'eart," said the _françiase_ throatily.

The priestess repeated the inquiry of Bill for 'Fleur Lys Delacour'.

"I do," grinned Bill, causing Molly Weasley to burst into tears.

The fiery cross split into two spheres of molten gold, each spinning until it had solidified into a gleaming ring. The couple unclasped their hands to slide the rings onto each other's fourth left finger, and the Priestess intoned,

"Born of divine flame, this ring binds thee to the vows you have made. By the power invested in me by the Olympian Church of England and the Ministry of Magic, I hereby pronounce you man and wife. You may –"

But Bill had already locked Fleur in a passionate kiss.

"That was beautiful," sighed Hermione as applause and cheers erupted around them. Harry nodded absentmindedly, wondering if he would live to hear those words uttered about him and …

"Ginny!" exclaimed Hermione, as the younger girl approached, Ron in tow. "Ron! Congratulations on your new sister."

"Mrs. Phlegm Weasley," giggled Ginny.

"Soon to be followed by … Mrs. Gabbie Weasley," added Ron. "I just asked her out, and she said yes!"

Harry looked at Hermione, expecting to see her angry or crestfallen. To his surprise, she was smiling unperturbedly. He made a mental note to investigate later this lack of jealousy about Ron's lovelife, so at odds with Hermione's behavior last year concerning Lavender Brown.

"It's good to see you, Harry."

He became aware that a small kid-gloved hand was resting on his arm. Grasping it, he swallowed and told Ginny, "I've missed you."

Her eyes glinted mischievously. "Show me how much."

Harry let himself be led to a secluded grove of trees. "Ginny –" he began to protest as she flung herself at him, but lost all power of speech as their lips met and his mind shut down.

Finally he summoned the will to break the kiss. "Head rush," he responded to Ginny's inquisitive look. Then his voice grew serious. "You know we can't do this."

"That's why I stayed away," she said softly. "But just –today, it can't hurt, there's no one here …"

A small voice in the back of Harry's mind told him to be firm, but he ignored it. After all, he had no idea when –if –he might see Ginny again, and he wanted this last day of peace at her side to imprint itself on his memory without the regret of having missed out on a single moment or possibility.

He pulled her close again and whispered into her hair, "After today, promise me not to even think of me until it's over …" And they melted into each other's embrace, forgetting the world around them, feeling themselves alone, together, complete.

Unaware that two shining eyes were watching them intently.

>

>

>

The celebration was in full swing when Harry and Ginny returned to the tent. Couples, including the newlyweds, were dancing and swirling to live band music. Harry spotted Ron doing the rumba in a sort of jubilant frenzy while his silver-haired partner hopped with light toe-saving nimbleness. Hermione was dancing with the twins, but seemed to think she'd had enough when Fred, holding her by the waist in the crook of his arm, spun her like a top across the floor to be caught by George. Fingertips on her temples, she made her way unsteadily toward Harry by the buffet.

"Why aren't you dancing with Ginny?" she asked, fanning herself as she took a glass of ice-cold pumpkin champagne from the table.  
"And where did you two disappear off to?"

Harry gave her a sheepish half-smile.

"Oh, _Harry_," said Hermione. "After all your precautions …"

"Nothing unsafe," said Harry defensively. "These are private grounds. Besides, how is it you're not hexing Ron for Twinkletoes there?"

She gave him a dignified snort. "I'll have you know I would never begrudge a friend enjoying himself."

"But last year –"

"Last year I was a bit high-strung," admitted Hermione. "But since this summer at the Burrow, I've realized that Ron and I are truly friends at heart, nothing more. I –I think I would know if I fell in love … it hasn't happened yet."

"That can be a positive in these times," said Harry darkly. "Especially since you're … you know …"

"Secret Keeper," nodded Hermione. "Which reminds me: Professor Lupin was looking for you."

"Order business?"

Hermione was nodding again when George jumped out in front of her, grabbing her free hand and, like an icon of Gryffindor House, roared, "Fair maiden, why dost thou forsake us?"

With a traumatized look Hermione let herself be swept back onto the floor. Harry chuckled as he scanned the room for the Order of the Phoenix's new Leader. He caught sight of the young, lined face of his former teacher standing with Molly and Arthur Weasley, who both were teetering happily and feeding each other champagne. Lupin motioned Harry to follow him outdoors.

"Well, Harry," said Lupin once they were out of eyesight and earshot. "Hermione tells me you've been making wonderful progress in your Defense training."

"Yes, Professor."

"I'd prefer if you call me Remus," laughed Lupin. "My academic career ended rather long ago."

"Sure –er, Remus," said Harry; bearing in mind that this man was his dad's close friend made switching to a first-name basis feel more natural.

"I'm afraid I have a difficult request to make of you," continued Lupin. "I know how you feel about entering your godfather's house, but we need to re-establish a stable base for meetings now that D– now that Phoenix leadership has changed," he finished quietly.

Harry expelled a loud breath. He had anticipated such a decision, and was determined not to let ghosts of grief haunt him. "Alright," he shrugged.

"Good spirit, Harry," said Lupin. "Our first meeting will be tomorrow morning then, if you're ready …"

"I'll tell Kreacher to put the kettle on," said Harry not a little unkindly. "That vile piece of –"

"If they would like, your friends are welcome to join us," said Lupin, glancing around with suddenly narrowed eyes. He sniffed cautiously once or twice, then, added, "Let's go back in."

"Is something wrong?" asked Harry, squinting in the dusky evening light.

"No, no –I thought I scented something, but it's probably just my increasing paranoia of late," sighed Lupin. "Come on, Harry, I don't believe you've had dinner yet, and a wedding feast of Molly's is not to be missed."

It was almost like back when Lupin would offer Harry chocolate to soothe his fears, when Harry was younger and hadn't yet tasted the bitterness of pain that could not be so easily appeased.


	5. Ordo Phoenix

― CHAPTER FIVE ―

**Ordo Phoenix**

**>**

Harry did indeed order Kreacher, his inherited house-elf, to prepare number twelve, Grimmauld Place for the upcoming Order meeting. So that when he, Ron, and Hermione arrived there early the following morning, bleary-eyed and yawning (the wedding after-party had kept them up) they found themselves Apparated into an acceptably clean stone-walled kitchen. The long wooden table was scrubbed, the fireplace swept, and a large iron tea-cauldron was boiling over the fire, sending wisps of steam curling into the chilly, dimly lit room.

A jumble of mixed emotions flooded through Harry upon revisiting the ancestral house of Black, which now belonged to him. On one hand, Harry considered it to be a cage that had confined Sirius in restless, pent-up frustration during his last year alive; thus the sad legacy of his godfather's death seemed etched in the very walls of the derelict mansion. On the other hand, now that he would not be returning to school, Harry was grateful of having somewhere to call –not 'home,' per se, but at least a safe, unplottable 'base,' as Lupin had put it, wherein to establish both himself and the Order for the duration of the war.

"Kreacher seems to have regained his housekeeping faculties," said Hermione brightly, running a finger over the dust-free pantry shelves.

"I wanted to keep him busy and out of sight," muttered Harry. "He should be upstairs now scrubbing out the attic."

"He's old, don't overwork –" Hermione began, but stopped at the warning glare in her friend's eye. Harry had no sympathy whatsoever for the traitorous hunchbacked creature whom he blamed, after Bellatrix Lestrange, as a direct agent in Sirius' murder.

"Make sure to order him to not poison our food," advised Ron. "I wouldn't put it past the shady little f –"

He was interrupted by a series of _Pop_!s echoing through the air. Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dedalus Diggle, and Minerva McGonagall had materialized in different spots around the kitchen.

"Er –welcome," said Harry, realizing with a start that he was the host.

"Potter," growled Moody, his electric blue eye swiveling madly in its socket. "Observe security protocol!"

"Oh, right," said Harry nervously. "Um –what is today's meeting's password?"

"_Et tu, Severus!_" said six voices in union.

"Right," said a slightly red Harry, kicking himself for having agreed to use another 'themed' brainwave of Hermione's. Just then another five _Pop_!s resounded and Arthur, Molly, Charlie, Fred and George Weasley joined them, prompting a second round of Shakespearian password validation.

The cavernous kitchen space suddenly seemed much smaller as people settled around the table. Mrs. Weasley bustled about pouring and magicking over cups of tea as Lupin, standing at the head of the table, seated Harry on his right and Professor McGonagall on his left.

"Friends, your attention, please … "

All chattering stopped as everyone turned to Lupin.

"Our first item today is the candidacy of five new young persons desiring initiation into the Order of the Phoenix." Lupin paused. "Fredrick Weasley, George Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter … please stand."

Harry got to his feet and grinned back down the table at Ron.

"As wizards of age you are eligible to enter the service of the Order, however … none of you have technically finished your education."

Fred and George exchanged outraged looks. "But we've invented more bloody useful –"

"I was merely noting," said Lupin quietly. "That your undergraduate status does not meet legal criteria for 'fully-qualified' practitioners of magic; therefore, each of you will need an Order member who does have the said credentials to vouch for your capability in fighting the Dark Arts." He gestured to his left. "This is precisely why Headmistress McGonagall has been so kind as to join our meeting."

Ron shot Harry an alarmed look. Their Transfiguration teacher could be a very strict judge of talent.

"Thank you, Remus," said McGonagall, rising as he sat down. She fixed them all with her stern gaze. "Among the candidates, academically speaking, Miss Granger alone has exceeded N.E.W.T. level magical proficiency."

Hermione flushed while the boys looked stricken.

"But as Albus Dumbledore always reminded me," said McGonagall, her voice quivering faintly, "There are many different paths to achievement."

She flashed a brief smile at Fred and George. "The Weasley twins have demonstrated such innovative ingenuity in wizardry as to justify their premature departure from Hogwarts."

Turning from the beaming twins to consider Ron, she continued, "The youngest Mr. Weasley thwarted my guard for the Philosopher's Stone at age eleven. As an adult, he is even better equipped to _checkmate_ obstacles."

Predictably, Ron's ears turned the color of the Hogwarts Express.

"And Mr. Potter ..." McGonagall adjusted her spectacles and coughed. "Remains beyond the realm of question."

Harry's jaw dropped. That was the most forthright declaration of trust she had made in the six years that he had been in her House.

"Very well, Minerva," said Lupin, and his jaded face seemed to take on a renewed strength as he addressed the youths once more.

"The decision to enlist rests with you. Just remember –" he regarded them gravely. "An oath of allegiance is in a way like an Unbreakable Vow: breaking it will not kill you, but … you must be willing to die to keep it."

Harry heard Mrs. Weasley make a strange strangled sound. He knew she was remembering the terrible boggart corpses she had seen in this very house. Now three more of her children would be in active combat.

"Fighting as protectors of wizardkind!" piped Dedalus Diggle.

"Courage and Integrity!" boomed Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Vigilance to the last!" Moody banged his fist on the table.

Lupin gestured at his wand, which had begun to glow bright white. "Fully aware of such –occupational hazards – please weigh your response carefully." Pause. "Do you wish to join us?"

"YES, SIR!" came four male voices and one soft, "yes, Professor."

Harry had been longing for this moment since the day he first learned of the Order's existence; and suddenly, with a great stab of emotion, he thought of blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles that should have been twinkling now while voicing this long-awaited invitation …

As if reading Harry's feelings, Lupin said gently, "Our Founder is here today with us in spirit; it is after his rare and magnificent bird that we are named: Fire of the Phoenix as light against the Dark."

Harry felt the frog in his throat retreat and a flame of fierce pride shoot up in his chest. _Dumbledore **is** alive … he lives in us, in our united faiths_. He caught the same proud poignant look on Hermione's face across the table. She smiled and mouthed, _D.A_.

"Well –on to the pledges …"

Lupin raised his now radiantly shining wand and called their names one by one, asking them to repeat after him with wands pressed over their hearts:

_In nomine magni veneficus nostri Merlin, enim iunctum Ordo Phoenix, per illumina et custodi contra malum, tribuo fidelitas eternus … voveo vovi votum! _

Sparks shot from Lupin's wandtip to linger at each of Fred, George, Ron, Hermione, and Harry's upheld hands as a feather of red-gold smoke that quivered dancingly before being sucked into their wands. Harry felt a strange energy surge up his arm, making his skin erupt into goosebumps.

"Welcome, members," smiled Lupin, extinguishing his wand.

It was too much for Mrs. Weasley, who flew out of her seat to smother her sons and Harry in a bone-crushing group hug. Hermione, meanwhile, was having her hand shaken by an uncharacteristically bright-eyed Professor McGonagall; and Tonks (her hair bubble gum pink again since her engagement to Lupin) had jumped up and was bouncing around them with a huge grin on her face, exclaiming, "Youngest members in our history, you lot! Beat my record!"

"_We're in the Order_," Ron kept repeating to himself in an awed hushed voice. He poked Harry in the ribs as the full meaning dawned on him. "Mate, we'll be on missions, spying on Death Eaters and … hey, we're allowed –no, wait, _sworn_ –to fight bloody Malfoy next time we see the slimy git!"

"_Ron_, that's …" said Hermione, her anti-rulebreaking expression (the one reserved specifically for restraining the impulsive use of unfriendly magic against their school enemy) slowly changing into the spirited look she wore when tackling a library project. "… such a refreshing notion!"

Harry felt giddy with the feeling of his membership: it was like that very first night at Hogwarts, being Sorted into Gryffindor, with Professor McGonagall's memorable words, "Your House will be something like your Family" ringing in his ears … this was as strong a sense of belonging, perhaps even more so, because it was not just about possessing the trait of courage; it was an oath to a legion at war.

Finally (and with the help of an impatient growl-bark from Mad-Eye), everyone had resumed their places for the meeting to continue. As their teacups refilled themselves, Lupin cleared his voice and said, "Our next issue is one of top confidentiality, and concerns," he leveled his gaze to his right. "Our host."

Harry felt thirteen pairs of eyes follow Lupin's, and knew what was coming.

"Harry," said Lupin quietly. "I'm aware that Dumbledore entrusted you with something –information, a mission of some sort –that you didn't want to tell Minerva on the night Hogwarts was attacked. But as Leader, and since you are now allied with the Order, I must ask you to tell us exactly what was going on."

"The boy was the last person to see Dumbledore alive," frowned Kingsley Shacklebolt. "We are entitled to know!"

"With all due respect, sir," said Harry, shaking his head. "You're not … and –" Turning to look Lupin straight in the eye, Harry addressed the older wizard as a peer for the first time. "Remus, I can't."

McGonagall was wearing the same glare as the last time Harry had refused to talk, Moody was scowling his darkest scowl, and even Mr. Weasley looked slightly reproachful. Harry didn't know how to explain to them why his instinct told him not share the truth of the Horcruxes –that it would be dangerous for their existence to become known even within this circle. Luckily Hermione, as usual, came to his rescue with her matter-of-fact logic.

"Harry is not at liberty to confide in anyone," she said firmly. "At Professor Dumbledore's specific request."

To Harry's surprise, Lupin nodded comprehendingly. "I see … let me ask this then: is there anything the Order can do to help with putting this information to good use?"

"Er," said Harry, caught off guard. "Thanks … I mean, I can use loads of help … but I need to think a few things out first."

"Let us know if anything comes up!" called out Fred from the end of the table, and George laughed, "Don't forget we trained as your soldiers Harry!"

The meeting went on for another half hour, with Lupin going over different points on security: the identity of possible Ministry spies, the destruction of Azkaban since the Dementor revolution, and the intelligence damage that Severus Snape's espionage had cost them. Harry at this point began to feel his neck burn with prickly anger as he realized that either nearly everyone here from his parents' generation must have known about Snape and his mother, but purposely avoided telling him; or that it was a clandestine friendship divulged only to a few –which was even worse, because it raised questions that only the two of them would be able to answer.

His musings were interrupted as he realized people were getting up and that Hermione was talking to him. "… not fair at all, don't you think so, Harry?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said," Hermione repeated. "That Professor McGonagall just told me she'll be receiving the school board's decision this afternoon, and that if they don't offer students a distance study option it wouldn't really be fair to those who want to graduate, would it?"

"_Appalling _injustice," Ron sympathized mockingly. "Criminal, really!"

"Yeah, we'll sue for robbing us of the joys of homework," added Harry.

"I'm surprised you masters of wit haven't realized its lunchtime," said Hermione. "Usually you'd be complaining of starving … we should be getting back to the Burrow."

"Wait," Harry said suddenly. "I need to tell Kreacher something."

"Not more labor!"

Harry grinned at Hermione. "Actually, yes … preparing living quarters. And guest bedrooms, for whenever you guys want to stay over."

"You mean –" Ron started. "But I thought you didn't want –"

"Well, Sirius did … he left me this place for a reason … and, I've never had a home away from school, so …" Harry's grin widened. "Tonight, I'm moving in."

_And tomorrow_, he added to himself, _I'll ask Lupin if he knew?_


	6. The ExDeath Eater

― CHAPTER SIX ―

**The Ex-Death Eater**

>

"_The Vampires have been sent out, my lord."_

_Voice of ice. "And the boy?"_

"_Tonight, my lord …"_

"_He needs to resist the Veritaserum they will surely administer. Bring him to see me; I will craft him a false memory that we can later eliminate."_

_A low hiss and long fingers thoughtfully tapping a mother-of-pearl vial. _

"_And … have Severus mix the boy more of this Amortentia …"_

Lying in his new bedroom, Harry's closed eyes twitched and his scar throbbed softly, but when morning came, he did not remember the dream at all.

>

>

>

"HALF-BLOOD FILTH! IGNOBLE ORPHAN SOILING MY THRESHHOLD! BASE AND VILE USURPER OF THE DARK LORD'S REIGN–" Mrs. Black's shrill screeches echoed throughout the hallway as Harry passed her portrait.

"Shut up," he said calmly. "I live here now, so save your breath."

"NOOOO! NEVER HAS THE ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK BEEN TAINTED BY UNCOUTH BLOOD, BY LESS THAN PURE –"

"_Langlock_," muttered Harry and watched as the irate woman in the portrait continued twisting her mouth open soundlessly. He drew the heavy drapes before her shut and turned to see Kreacher staring malevolently at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Mistress is right about Master," croaked the ugly house-elf. "Master should not be dirtying this house that Kreacher and Kreacher's fathers served noble wizards in … oh, how shameful is Master's trespass!"

Harry ignored him and began walking to the kitchen for breakfast.

"Oh yes, Kreacher knows who this house belongs to, if last Master hadn't been a blood traitor …"

Harry whirled around and clenched his teeth. "You little … hang on, this is easy … _I forbid you_ to _ever_ mention or refer to _any_ member of the Black family, including those by marriage, the Lestranges and the Malfoys!"

Kreacher sank into a mandatory low bow while looking like he had just swallowed bile.

"Kreacher must do what Master bids," he grumbled. "But Kreacher is glad Master cannot take what belongs here even if he dishonors this house with enemies of the Lord …"

Harry shrugged. "If you mean the old hag's portrait, some creepy decapitated elf-heads, and that moldy genealogy tapestry upstairs then you're in luck. I wouldn't touch them unless to set fire to them. Now go clean out the, uh–" (what rooms were left?) "Drawing room!"

Kreacher gave him an odd sort of leer and slinked off.

"Nutter," Harry muttered to himself as he entered the kitchen. Pouring himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and biting into a piece of dry toast, he thought longingly of the delicious breakfasts at Hogwarts' Great Hall. He didn't want Kreacher to prepare his meals (even with a no-poison policy) because, frankly, it would repulse him to eat anything that Kreacher had touched. Thankfully, Harry wasn't so bad at cooking himself –having had plenty of practice at the Dursleys –but he didn't have the zeal to spend time at the stove beyond what was required for heating porridge, toast, and coffee. _Maybe I should learn a couple easy recipe spells from Hermione or Ginny_ …

An image of chocolate brown eyes teasingly tender swept across his mind. He remembered hugging her goodbye at the wedding, how she had pressed him as if never wanting to let go, and then had stepped back quickly and vanished into the crowd before he could form words to reassure her that this wouldn't be their final parting. Harry forced himself to push the image away and concentrate instead on how he was going to convince his friends not to follow him next week on his trip to Godric's Hollow. They would refuse to let him go alone … maybe he should ask Moody to come instead, seeing as he was a professional Auror …

_Crack_! "Morning, mate!"

_Crack_! "Ron Weasley! Watch whose toes you're treading next time you sprint to Apparate …"

"Ow! Hey, it was an acci-"

"Lay off it guys," said Harry. "No love-hate banter til noon at least. And I have something I need to tell you."

Ron and Hermione each plopped down on opposite sides of the bench. Ron grabbed a burnt toast but thought better of it, and Hermione kindly conjured some golden toasted slices and a pot of marmalade for him. Harry never stopped marveling at how fast the pair of them went from cats and dogs to turtledoves. And why they insisted it was 'just' friendship was beyond him. Then again, he knew brothers and sisters could be like that.

"So, what's up Harry?"

"Aside from the warm welcome from Sirius' mother, whose tongue I glued up, and that crazy elf, whom I forbade to speak of Bellatrix bloody Lestrange, everything's great." He took a deep breath. "But about our, er, excursion coming up –"

At that moment there was a cacophonic mix of hooting and tapping behind the small windowpane by the fireplace. Three owls –Hedwig, Pig, and Hermes –were flapping outside impatiently, due to lack of a ledge to land on. Hermione shot up, practically Apparating to the window so fast she moved, and fumbled to get it open. "Argh!" she shrieked, untying the envelopes. "Our Hogwarts letters!"

"_So_ mental," sighed Ron.

Harry silently blessed whoever was in charge of owl post delivery for the perfect timing. Now he had a chance –if indeed the news was affirmative –to persuade his friends to return to school where they belonged, safe and away from his tendency to get people close to him killed.

Hermione had torn her letter in her excitement to pry out the parchment, but her expression was eloquent of the contents of her reading. She trembled and raised her eyes to Harry and Ron, who were watching her with amused grins.

"I –I'm Head Girl," she whispered hoarsely.

"Wow, Hermione, that's fantastic!"

"Bloody hell, did you ever doubt it would be anyone but you?"

She looked ecstatic and then quickly rearranged her features into a composed nonchalance. "But its irrelevant because I'm not going ba–"

"YES YOU ARE!" Harry exclaimed. "You've been chosen to represent all Hogwarts students, and for their sake you will assume your responsibility!"

"But, Harry –"

"No buts, Hermione," said Harry. "Look, you said yourself that there may be a Horcrux hidden at Hogwarts. You can help me best by looking into that, plus you'll have access to the library to do research on leads, and most importantly, the Order needs someone based at Hogwarts –McGonagall will be too busy with her teaching and administrative duties –to watch over the students' security … it's the same as being stationed as Guard there, except you'll have better access to everything with your position, and," (he saw from her wavering expression that she was giving in) "you'll make us all proud when you ace the N.E.W.Ts!"

Hermione turned her doubtful frown to Ron. "What do you think?"

"Hermione," said Ron earnestly, "Harry and I will do better out there knowing that you're doing what you do best: using that clever magic talent you always keep us in line with to keep Hogwarts out of danger." His mouth jerked into a twisted smile. "Believe me, I wish there was a spell to clone you so I wouldn't have to miss your mental company, but there's only one –"

He was cut off as Hermione leaned over and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. Ron took it unblushingly but his voice cracked as he said, "Yeah, and Harry will be getting the benefit of the sparkling Weasley wit."

"So, will you accept," said Harry, holding up the polished silver badge he had extracted from the envelope. "This?"

Hermione took the badge, and turning it over in her palm, breathed, "The title acronym embossed on it matches my name initials … H.G."

"That's a yes," said Ron in relief. "Congratulations, Miss Hogwarts!"

"Does it say who made Head Boy?" Harry asked, scanning over his and Ron's letters and seeing that they definitely had not.

"No," said Hermione, rereading hers. "But I have a lot of shopping to do at Diagon Alley. What a list!"

"Maybe its Neville," laughed Ron. "You never know …"

"It can't be another Gryffindor," said Hermione. "School rules. And you both know which book I'm referencing!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yep."

After tiring of trying to guess who the seventh-year male prefect might be, the three fell into a content, comfortable silence, each thinking their own thoughts and watching the glowing embers in the grate. Hermione turned lazily to Harry and asked, "You never got a chance to finish what you wanted to tell us earlier?"

"Oh …" said Harry, knowing that he could not possibly let on that he had wanted them to return to school for safety reasons, because Hermione would think it an ulterior motive in his arguments just now to take the Headship. Looking over at Ron's relaxed face, Harry suddenly knew that it would insult his best friend if he thought Harry didn't want him along, and, Harry realized, it wouldn't feel right without Ron by his side anyhow, after all they had been through together in the last six years. "I just thought we could ask Moody to come with us."

"That would be wise," nodded Hermione. "If You-Know-Who has guessed you might visit your parents' house, he'll have stationed lookouts."

"Speaking of our favorite guy," said Ron dryly. "It looks like he's done in Malfoy's mum."

"What!" said Harry, nearly falling off his chair.

"I overheard Dad flooing Scrimgeour this morning about some sort of midnight Ministry raid at Malfoy Manor. I didn't get the details but it sounded pretty grisly."

Even though he thought it served Malfoy right –_he made his bed, let him lay in it_ –Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the boy he had seen crying in the bathroom last year, terrified of the death threats against his parents. And even though Narcissa Malfoy was a Death Eater; sister to Bellatrix Lestrange and wife to Lucius Malfoy (the two main players in the orchestration of the trap that had led to Sirius' death), Harry remembered her from last year at Madame Malkin's: slim, pale, and arrogant, yet so ardently protective of her son. It looked like one had failed to save the other –had Voldemort killed Narcissa to punish Draco, or had Narcissa sacrificed herself to save Draco?

"That's _awful_," said Hermione in a small voice. "Poor Draco."

Harry looked at her and knew that the same thought mechanism had passed through her mind for both of them to think of Malfoy by his first name at this moment. Ron, however, looked unruffled.

"Well, like I said yesterday, the slimy git had it coming."

"I sympathize with him," said Harry simply. "Because I know what it feels like to have your mother murdered."

"But you don't have a nasty skull branded on your arm," Ron pointed out. "You didn't let Death Eaters and a rabid werewolf into a place where hundreds of your schoolmates were innocently sleeping." His voice was harsher than Harry had ever heard it. "And you definately did not try to kill Dumbledore!"

There was an audible silence. Harry sighed. "I'm not saying Malfoy's not guilty of all those things. From day one, he was a thorn in our sides, and now we're formally at war with his boss." He shrugged. "But I saw him suffering last year. He looked ill, he was nerve-wracked to the point of sobbing to Moaning Myrtle, and I –I really hurt him with that Sectumsempra curse …"

"Maybe he didn't have a choice to join the Death Eaters," said Hermione. "Maybe his father forced it on him."

"No, he sounded pretty proud of himself when he was boasting about his mission to the Slytherins on the train," said Harry. "But I think as he realized what the consequences of being Voldemort's servant could be –losing his family, putting his friends in danger –he might have regretted his decision. I say so only because, when Dumbledore was talking to him up there," Harry paused to recall the painful scene in the Astronomy Tower. "Malfoy was uncertain. Even, maybe, he would have surrendered, because at the last moment before the others came, he lowered his wand …"

"Aw," scoffed Ron. "How sweet of him."

"It's useless to talk about this," said Hermione. "Ron's right. Malfoy made his final choice when he ran away with Snape that night, so no matter what he may or may not have learned last year, he's still our enemy."

"Yeah," said Harry slowly. "One thing we've learned –the hard way – is that there's no such thing as an Ex-Death Eater."


	7. RAB

― CHAPTER SEVEN ―

**R. A. B.**

**>**

Though Harry had reconciled himself to the notion that Ron and Hermione would indeed be fully involved in the Horcrux hunt –one directly at his side, the other indirectly at Hogwarts –there remained one thing that he wanted to do completely alone. Not out of anxiety for his friends' security, but because this was something so deeply personal, he wanted it to be a sacredly private moment between only himself … and his family.

Wet leaves squelched under his trainers and Harry drew his Invisibility Cloak closer around him against the misty drizzle, shivering and cursing the _Daily Prophet_'s Meteor-Diviner for promising a 'cool, clear last August night' which, excepting the date, had turned out anything but. However, nothing short of getting struck by lightning would have stopped Harry from continuing to navigate his way through eerie shadows that were tombstones in the dark grassy cemetery, following the directions Lupin had given him, to visit for the first time …

He stopped and felt his heartbeat sharply double in speed. This must be it, yes: there was the huge oak tree, and beneath it two twin stones … approaching cautiously, letting the cloak drop, not caring that the rain was coming down harder, Harry kneeled down and traced the graying marble with his fingers over the names:

**_>_**

**_Lily Evans Potter_**

**_James Griffin Potter_**

>

His tears came unbidden and mixed with the rainfall streaming on his face. Here was the cold, stony legacy that Voldemort had left him with –worse than any scar, any nightmares, worse than any prophetical destiny. It was the arbitrary rawness of stripping two people from their right to live with just a few syllables, without minding in the least that their presences could never, ever be replaced, their faces seen and their voices heard, in the life of the most significant creation their love had brought into existence … all because Voldemort was rash enough to select that creation –a mere infant –as his Moses-like future fatality. How ludicrous, really, that someone who fashioned himself a name "wizards everywhere would fear to speak," should choose _vol de mort_: 'flight from death' … proclaiming him the biggest coward of all! Cowardly enough to tear his soul six times to ensure immortality, yet still hunt down a one-year-old baby boy for fear of _a power he knows not_: Love, the very antithesis to Fear itself!

Gazing, transfixed, at his parents' graves, Harry whispered, "Mum … Dad … you … you made us invincible, because your love and my love, **that's** what's immortal, infinite … what he craved, what he killed for." He sighed deeply, remembering Dumbledore's words _there are things worth than death, Tom_ … "What he'll become **nothing** for."

He sat there for a long time, then touched the stones once again, and got up, reaching for his Cloak. He frowned.

It wasn't there.

Harry forced himself to stay calm and methodically search every inch around the tree. No cloak. This time his chilled shiver had nothing to do with the weather.

Whipping out his wand, Harry began to edge through the graveyard, his eyes straining through the dark mist stretching sightlessly around him. "_Lumos_," automatically; but the faint blue wandlight didn't penetrate much … a sudden motion on his peripheral vision had Harry's Quidditch reflexes leaping toward the source. He clashed with something heavy and went sprawling, grasping at invisible mid-air and feeling silken material bunch in his fist. As the cloak came away, the figure under it Disapparated deafeningly and Harry was left panting on the soaked ground clutching silvery folds of cloth.

"Dammit!" he cried in frustration, sitting up and patting the grass to find his glasses which had fallen off. Bespectacled again, he looked around to see where he was and found himself face-to-face with something which made him gasp almost as loudly as the stranger had vanished.

It was a tall, oblong black headstone with ornate carvings that read:

**_Regalus Alphard Black_**

**1957 – 1989**

**_Enfant pur-sang de la maison ancienne et noble des Noirs_**

>

Sirius telling him, '_Well,don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death ...'_

And ... '_I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more' ..._signed, R. A. B.

>

The mysterious wizard who hadleft the note in thefake Horcruxwas none other than the youngest Black son, prodigal brother of Sirius … and Kreacher had said something, about not taking what belonged to … with an excited yell Harry sprang up and deliberately determined the Burrow as his destination.

>

>

>

"Hmmpf?"

The sleepy orange head rolled and disappeared under a pillow.

"RON! Wake up!" Harry practically pounded his friend's wall-turned, blanket-covered shoulder. "Wake. UP!"

"Whaa … Harr?"

"That's right, Harry. Potter. Mate. Who Lived … please get up Ron, we have to wake Hermione and …"

"'kay, alright, I'm up," grumbled Ron. "What time 'sit?"

"Witching Hour," said Harry, grinning as Ron pried himself out of his sheets and pulled his robe around him. "Come on!"

A drenched Harry and pyjama-clad Ron were not what Hermione expected in her bedroom in the small hours of the night. "Who? What!" she exclaimed, wide awake after hearing her name urgently hissed once.

"We have to go to my place, now," said Harry. "I'll explain when we get there. Hurry!"

It took Hermione under thirty seconds to magic her nightgown into traveling robes, cast a drying spell and _Reparo_ on Harry and his glasses, and say breathlessly, "I'll see you there" before _Pop_!ing out of sight. The boys, no longer impressed by her habitual record-speed feats, casually followed suit.

"What in the name of Merlin is going on?" demanded Ron when they had regrouped in the hallway at number twelve, tapping a foot shod in a tiger-head slipper.

"R.A.B.," said Harry. "I know who he is!"

"What! Who?" asked Hermione, sounding like a reverse déjà vu.

"Regalus Black, Sirius' brother," said Harry, talking fast now. "I went to the cemetery tonight to visit my parents and accidentally came across his grave when I –but that's another story –and his middle name is Alphard, after their uncle!"

Ron and Hermione had both gone chalk-white.

"You went without protection –"

"Never mind that now, what matters is that … KREACHER!" The air snapped and the house-elf materialized before them in a scowling bow.

"Master called Kreacher?" Spite-laced croak.

"Kreacher," said Harry. "Bring me the Dark objects that belonged to Regalus Black that you hid away when we were cleaning out the drawing room cabinets two years ago." Seeing the bat-eared elf making no effort to move, he added, "Now!"

"You mean …" said Ron, the contagious excitement crawling onto his face. "The real one, it's been here all along?"

Harry half-nodded, half-shook his head. "Dunno yet for sure."

"What will you do if it is?" whispered Hermione. "Did Dumbledore tell you how to destroy it?"

"No," admitted Harry. "I have no idea … we'll just have to figure it out."

"Wait," Hermione said and from her tone Harry could hear the wheels whirring in her head. "Didn't R.A.B.'s note say he would destroy it himself?"

"_Intended_ to," corrected Harry, who had it memorized word for word.

Kreacher startled them with a howling reappearance. "Master will do as he pleases, oh, but Kreacher hates giving up the Black family treasures, to a blood traitor, half-blood, and Mudblood, Mistress would kill Kreacher …"

The house-elf had brought a dirty rucksack tied as a bundle, which Harry took and, unknotting with clumsily trembling fingers, spread open to reveal an odd assortment of objects, amid which lay a heavy, dully gleaming gold locket –monogrammed with a serpentine S.S.

Harry sucked in his breath. He felt as if he'd been slammed in the stomach with an iron fist. Here it was, the Horcrux, Salazar Slytherin's locket: the object for whose sake Dumbledore had drunken that deadly phosphorescent-green potion, had suffered and been sapped of strength … his sacrifice in vain when the locket in the cave had turned out a worthless replica. _And all this time it was here, right under our noses_, Harry fumed. _At Phoenix Headquarters, no less! Could it get more cruelly ironic?_

His fingers were about to close over the Horcrux when Harry drew his hand back, suddenly wary. It contained strong Dark magic, after all, and shouldn't be handled heedlessly. He swallowed as he met Hermione's equally nervous eyes.

"I can't believe that's a seventh of You-Know-Who in there," said Ron, looking both fascinated and horror-stricken.

"I can't believe Dumbledore died because of something hidden in a dirty old rag," said Harry tonelessly. "That's the second murder that wretched Kreacher's negotiated … wait til I get my hands on him." He closed his eyes for a moment and then spoke with vicious calm. "I'm going to order him to jump off the roof."

"_Harry_," Hermione said reproachfully. "The only person who knew there was a fake was R.A.B. … and you would've never known unless you went to the cave, so the trip did have an important result: information. Besides, good thing Kreacher salvaged the Black valuables that day, or we would've thrown this out and lost it forever!"

"Are you saying I should _thank_ Kreacher?"

"No," Hermione said hastily. "Just don't, erm, blame him."

"Can we get on to the destroying bit?" piped up Ron, his face quite green. "I'd rather eat spiders than have _that_ (he toed at the Horcrux) on the loose."

Harry peered at the sinister-looking locket.

"The basilisk fang pierced the diary paper," he reasoned out loud slowly. "So, what will … _melt down_, I reckon … gold?"

"Blast it with _Incendio_!" Ron suggested.

"Precious metals' melting points are much higher than wood, Ron," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "You need more than fire. Muggle goldsmiths torch gold using gas …"

"Maybe … transfigure it into wood?"

"I doubt a wizard as expert as Him would overlook anti-transfiguation protection on something this valuable. No, I'm certain there's …" A light Harry knew well (and loved to see because it meant that he and Ron were about to be enlightened) dawned in Hermione's eyes. "Goblins! They can melt this down at Gringotts!"

Harry grinned in appreciation of such clean problem-solving. "We'll go to Diagon Alley first thing tomorrow, then."

"You boys will," said Hermione. "I'll be at Kings Cross station … tomorrow is the first of September, remember?"

>

>

>

Later that night, after retying the locket in its bundle and enclosing it in a box he locked securely and chained to his bedpost, Harry thought of the strange cemetery cloak-snatcher, and wondered why he hadn't heard him approaching. More importantly, why hadn't he attacked Harry right then?_ I was an easy target … could've been kidnapped, or lost my dad's cloak _… But soon these thoughts distorted and faded as he drifted off, and though lying next to a piece of Voldemort's soul, Harry slept deeply and dreamlessly.


	8. Return to Hogwarts

― CHAPTER EIGHT ―

**Return to Hogwarts**

>

Hermione Granger stepped through the brick wall barrier onto Platform 9 ¾, where the familiar scarlet engine train stood billowing thick clouds of steam across a less-than-usual crowd of departing students and a more-than-usual number of Ministry bodyguards. She knew that many wizarding families felt that Hogwarts was no longer a safe place for their children to attend, and were opting for the 'at-home' study alternative, which the Board had ended up implementing after all. Hermione felt a bit cross at this; anyone who bothered to read about the history of Hogwarts would know that the enchantments protecting the castle (recently reinforced by McGonagall) made it a virtual stronghold compared to even the Ministry in London. As for the loophole found last year … well, being Head Girl, she planned to take it upon herself (with the aid of the Marauder's Map, which Harry had bequeathed to her), to make sure the Room of Requirement would not be accessed by students again –especially Slytherins.

Since her best friends were busy with the locket business this morning, Tonks had been appointed to supervise Hermione's send-off. Snapping her gum loudly, the pink-haired witch now put a hand on her charge's shoulder, and spun Hermione around to face her.

"Listen, lass," she said soberly. "I know you're real close to Harry an' Ron, but you know owls can be intercepted …"

"Of course, I'll be careful."

"Not that," said Tonks, emphatically shaking her spiky head. "There may be surprises at school that would be best not to, uh, share with the boys, y' know?."

"What do you mean?" Hermione was curious now.

"Just remember boys can be stupid about some things." Tonks began pushing the trunk-loaded trolley again and it seemed this was her final word of ambiguous advice. Puzzled, Hermione followed and figured she would decide what it meant when confronted with the 'surprise.' Meanwhile, she had already agreed with the young Order members in question that their regular reports to each other should be ciphered to sound like casual letter-writing, and they had even agreed on an 'S.O.S.' code in case of emergency help needed: _Troll!_ … after the first danger the trio had ever faced together, the incident that had sealed their friendships back when they were eleven.

"Wow, I miss the Hogwarts days," said Tonks a bit wistfully, looking up at the train door where students were clambering aboard. A ginger head poked out from a window down from the spot they stood, waving to get their attention. Tonks beamed back. "Wotcher, Ginny."

"Oh, it's you!" Hermione knew that Ginny had come to the station with the twins from their flat because she was avoiding a run-in with Harry, since he had been supposed to escort Hermione here. Hence the note of relief in the younger girl's voice to see Tonks as his substitute.

Hermione hugged Tonks goodbye and heaved her trunk up onto the storage rack, then turned to bundle Crookshanks, her large tabby cat, in her arms and call out, "Thanks, Nymphadora!" Since her fiancé called her by her first name, Tonks didn't mind it as much, and let Hermione use it since the latter insisted it was more 'melodious' than her surname.

As the Hogwarts Express whistled and began to chug forth, Hermione headed straight for the Prefects' carriage, modestly acknowledging congratulatory greetings from a few seventh-year students as she made her way along the corridor. She slipped inside the compartment and the first person her eyes sought out was Head Boy. Looking pompous in a Percyesque way with his gleaming badge pinned on immaculate robes was sandy-haired Hufflepuff Ernie Macmilllan.

"Hello, Hermione," he said. "I had a feeling it would be you!"

"You too," she fibbed courteously. Actually, she had guessed it would be a Ravenclaw. She looked around and nodded at all the prefects, including the new fifth-years, a girl and a boy from each of the four houses. Also present were the prefects from her own year … Pansy Parkinson, and a handsome black boy, Blaise Zabini, who was evidently the replacement for Slytherin's exiled prince. _Vain, yes, but not as obnoxious, thank the gods_.

"Of course McGonagall would choose Head Girl from her own House," sniffed Pansy Parkinson, a look of disdain on her heart-shaped, pug-like face. "Even if she's of questionable pedigree."

"I wouldn't mention _pedigree_ if I were you, _Pugsy_," retorted Hermione, eliciting a snicker quickly smothered as a cough from Zabini. Pansy shot him a sulky glare but refrained from countering. Ready to move onto business, Hermione conjured a quill and parchment and said, "Alright, let's work out our night-patrolling shifts for school … who wants Mondays … ?"

The rest of the train trip was the dullest that Hermione remembered having experienced. She missed Harry and Ron badly; though Ginny was her closest girlfriend, she just wasn't the same company. To her astonishment, Ginny didn't seem as affected by her boyfriend and brother's absences. She was sitting and chattering with a group of sixth-year Ravenclaw girls, and not in the compartment with Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom as Hermione would have expected.

Eventually the darkened landscape began to flash by more slowly, and the train lurched to a stop. After disembarking, Hermione and Ernie helped organize the students into lines for boarding the Thestral-drawn carriages, while Hagrid ("Lo there 'Ermione, made 'ead girl, 'ave yer!") shepherded the tiny first-years toward rowless boats for the customary lake-crossing. Hermione was happy to see the towering gamekeeper looking drastically less depressed than the last time she had seen him at the funeral in June.

Soon, the turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle rose on the horizon, blazing against a deep, velvety blue sky, and Hermione felt her insides clench with emotion. _This is the last time I'll be riding towards this view_, she realized. _I've got to appreciate every moment of this final year_ …

Briskly crossing the huge flagstone foyer to the candlelit Great Hall, Hermione felt a weird excitement tingle through her. This year was already so different –without Dumbledore and Snape, without Harry and Ron, without a fourth of students who had chosen not to return, her Phoenix membership and her Headship –that she couldn't help feeling a sense of anticipation of things to come. Who knew what would happen in such altered conditions?

The ceiling of the Great Hall was a clear star-strewn indigo mirroring its outdoor version, but the atmosphere among the four long tables was leaden and hushed –totally unlike the noisy lightheartedness that typically prevailed at start-of-term feasts. Even the Slytherin table looked downcast, although Hermione was sure that several of them had Death Eater and/or Dumbledore-hating parents. She, too, felt the weight of the absence of their Headmaster, but she was not going to let what could not be changed dampen her spirits: she owed it to Harry to be as positive-minded as possible.

Professor McGonagall had stood and was clinking her spoon against her cup to call for order. The Hall fell pin-drop silent.

"I welcome, quite literally, your return to Hogwarts." McGonagall's voice was strong as she looked into the sea of students' upturned faces, square spectacles flashing. "It has been an extremely difficult decision both for staff," she gestured the length of her table where Professors Slughorn, Sprout, Flitwick, Trelawney, Sinistra, and others, plus Hagrid and Madame Pomfrey, were seated. "As for yourselves and your families."

"Hogwarts shall never forget the greatest wizard and finest headmaster of this age. And we shall not forget the tragedy of Professor Dumbledore's unnatural death, nor the devastating dishonor committed by Severus Snape," she paused, and raised her voice a little. "But we will remember the wisdom of Dumbledore in a time such as this: we must remain united against enmity, whether external or internal.

"So I beseech you to follow school regulations, to be on your guard and report anything out of the ordinary to a prefect or professor, and to cease all forms of inter-house rivalry. To this last end, Quidditch competitions will not be held this year." She held up a hand to stop the collective groan. "This decision has been taken also out of regard for new security measures, which prohibit students from walking the grounds except for recess in the courtyard or Herbology at the greenhouses. In other words, the lake, the Quidditch field, and of course as ever, the Forbidden Forest are strictly out-of-bounds. Curfew for all years is eight in the evening and will be rigidly enforced. The criteria for expulsion have become quite stringent this year, so consider yourselves warned."

This was as severe a departure from Dumbledore's speechmaking style as anyone would have expected from McGonagall, but it still stung to believe that Hogwarts had changed from boarding school to boot camp. Hermione was beginning to feel hunger cramps and wished that like her predecessor, McGonagall would have preferred to address them after they had been fed.

"Now, before we commence the feast, I have an announcement that may come rather as a shock to you, but after listening to the circumstances I hope you will recognize the rationale for the school board's decision in this matter." Despite the tiredness of the long journey and their growing hunger, everyone's rapt attention refocused on McGonagall.

"I extend my _demonstrative_ welcome to another Hogwarts returnee, who will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts," said the Headmistress, beckoning at the archway to the side of her platform. A tall, narrow, erect figure stepped forward, and hundreds of disbelieving eyes watched as the firelight fell across the pale, pointed face of Draco Malfoy.

There was a moment of pure dumbfounded speechlessness.

Then, the Great Hall was in uproar. Screams of "Death Eater!" and "Murderer!" rang in Hermione's ears, mingling with the blood pounding furiously in her ears. _Malfoy at Hogwarts after what he did? As a **teacher**?_ For the first time in her life Hermione questioned the sanity of a professor she liked and respected: Was McGonagall mad?

"Order! … ORDER!" McGonagall's _sonorus_-amplified command silenced the enraged student populace and she fixed them with a stonily sympathetic gaze. "I understand your reaction but listen before forming judgments or voicing accusations! Mr. Malfoy did _not_ kill Albus Dumbledore, though he _did_ regrettably aid the Dark Order in executing that act." Another wave of angry murmurs rose but she held her hand up. "Please! Let me continue."

"Mr. Malfoy sought my help after a horrifically traumatic experience that caused him to desert the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," McGonagall paused for the full implications of her statement to sink in. "He will tell you himself, now, what happened to cause his conversion back to our Side –the truth of which," she added. "Has been verified by Veritaserum."

Draco Malfoy's silver eyes were expressionless –one could not say whether empty or apathetic –as he surveyed the Hall. His voice, when he spoke, was low-pitched. "A week ago, I bore witness to my mother being mercilessly slain." The signature drawl was gone but the intrinsic arrogance was still there. He hesitated and then choked vehemently, "At the hands of my father!"

Hermione felt her throat constrict as sharp intakes of breath sounded up and down their table. She had never seen Malfoy bleeding publicly like this; frankly, she hadn't imagined he had the guts. And what a nauseating reality check had finally slapped him into opening his eyes to the extent of Voldemort's lunacy … it made her sick …

There were still murmurs but the tone had winded down significantly.

McGonagall said crisply, "As you see, Mr. Malfoy's fugitive status puts him at great risk, and it is up to us to offer him refuge in our compassion, our forgiveness, and –our solidarity. I hope that as I demonstrated earlier, you too will welcome him back to your school."

"I have appointed Mr. Malfoy Defense instructor as part of the conditions for his return. Due to his firsthand, insider knowledge of the Death Eater system, he is better suited than any Auror or Professor to educate you against offensive Dark magic, despite his young age."

A ghost of a smile appeared. "I think we are all famished and it is enough said. The Sorting Ceremony will begin after we enjoy our start-of-term feast." And with that, the tables sprang to life with a rich array of food and drink.

Speech before dinner, Sorting afterward … everything was inverted. And Malfoy, repentant … _there's no such thing as an Ex-Death Eater_, Harry's voice said in her head as Hermione watched the boy take a seat at the Slytherin table –evidently, he was still deemed a student first and foremost –and suddenly the meaning of Tonks' warning clicked. She was not supposed to tell Harry and Ron about Malfoy's return because they would never accept the possibility of his innocence, and might even seek a violent confrontation with him, which might lead to bad outcomes. She could envision how red Ron would turn reading, "Ernie Macmillan is Head Boy. Slughorn is still Potions Master. And the new DADA is Professor Malfoy … " Her chuckle immediately became a grimace. No! not _professor_. Just instructor, like Harry had been for the D.A. in fifth year.

Was Malfoy lying or sincere? There was the truth serum test … but there was also Snape's example to consider. If Snape could hoodwink Dumbledore, wouldn't Malfoy be able to deceive McGonagall? As for exiting Voldemort's service, it wasn't as impossible has Harry had affirmed it to be: Regalus Black proved that there _could_ be true repentance for a Death Eater …

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that at first she didn't notice the sensation of being stared at. Lifting her head, she was startled to see Malfoy's penetrating grey gaze locked on her. Before she could work up a proper glower, he did something so utterly un-Malfoyish that she was thrown off balance. He smiled at her. Slowly, and sexily.

Hermione dropped her eyes back to her plate of apple crumble, confused and annoyed. It really was becoming an alternate universe, for the classically condescending blond Slytherin to produce a non-smirking smile directed at her. True, she had anticipated changes this year, but none like _this_. Hermione remembered her own verdict: _No matter what … he is still our enemy_. She added a clause: _Especially if he smiles bizarrely_.


	9. Defence Against Draco's Arts

― CHAPTER NINE ―

**Defense Against Draco's Arts**

>

Ginny Weasley agreed with Hermione that censorship of Malfoy's debut in the rôle of renegade was wise. The Order already knew; if Lupin shared facts on a need-to-know basis, he must have his reasons why Harry and Ron should not hear of their archenemy's state of affairs. So Hermione wrote a letter on all the changes at Hogwarts minus one, and reminded her friends to inform her of the Gringotts result.

Life at Hogwarts resumed its normalcy as classes began and both faculty and students willed to put ghosts to rest and plough on with it. Hermione soon found herself buried in mountains of seventh-year homework, patrol shifts, and during what free time she had, library research on the lives and lineages of Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor. So far, she had not found anything noteworthy about valuable artifacts or living descendants, but there was always the Restricted Section if nothing turned up.

A few Gryffindors had abstained from returning to school: Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnegan, for example, which led to a new friendship between Lavender Brown and Dean Thomas. Hermione could see that Hogwarts students were really taking the 'united we stand' approach to heart this time; it was no longer unusual to see cross-house amity … Ginny was hanging out with Luna and other Ravenclaws, Neville was seen potting plants alongside Hannah Abbot of Hufflepuff, and even Slytherin prefect Blaise Zabini got along with the other prefects. Some Slytherins, of course, like Parkinson and her friends, still kept to themselves, biased, aloof, and antagonistic.

As for Draco Malfoy, he was rarely in the company of anyone at all. Even though most students fairly believed in his conversion, they were still distrustful of the Dark Mark-carrying Slytherin and the uncharacteristically impassive expression that had replaced his trademark sneers and smirks. Pansy Parkinson seemed to be the only person who tried to approach him, but for some unfathomable reason he had brushed her off, causing her to studiously ignore him thereafter.

Three days after start-of-term, Hermione's brown barn owl came swooping in amid the morning post delivery rush, and a letter fluttered onto her milk jug. She gave Hermes a treat and excitedly opened the envelope which was addressed in Harry's hand.

_Dear H, _

_Hope you're well and not missing editing our essays for us … the 1.7 karat gold was successfully sold off at the bank. We are looking forward to a walk down memory lane this weekend with captain hook … let us know if key to ancient runes are found in your studies. _

_**We** certainly miss **you**,_

_P.W._

Hermione smiled to herself. Another Horcrux down, three to go. Voldemort was half-mortal now … and they might find new clues at Godric's Hollow, and they would be protected by a veteran Auror –she assumed the alias for Moody was based on the lack of eye & leg, not on his pirate-like gruffness … a tiny frown creased her brow. She hadn't found any hints of the relics yet; perhaps it was time to get a note from Professor McGonagall for deeper delving …

>

>

>

The Headmistress still occupied her old Transfiguration office, because Minerva McGonagall staunchly refused to move to Dumbledore's quarters. Hermione knocked and, hearing her Head of House call "Come in," entered the austere, book-lined room. McGonagall looked up from the papers she was grading –not yet a week into term and she had foot-long scrolls back –at her desk. "Miss Granger, how did you know I wanted to see you?"

"I didn't," said Hermione. "I came to ask for a library pass."

"Restricted topics, I presume?"

Hermione smile demurely. "Extra-curricular."

"Very well," said McGonagall, scratching out her signature on a permit. Without looking up from what she was doing, she asked, "Have you noticed changes Mr. Malfoy's behavior?"

Hermione shrugged. "He keeps to himself. Seems numb."

"Precisely," said McGonagall. "That is why I want you to befriend him."

"Pardon, Professor?"

"To befriend is to become someone's friend," said McGonagall wryly. "Mr. Malfoy was a minor when he made his mistakes last year, so legally he is entitled to Ministry pardon. _We_, however (the accentuated word translated as_ Order_) don't wholly trust him … not after what happened with Severus," she finished softly.

"But –how would I be able to tell?"

"My dear," sighed her teacher. "You are an intelligent young woman. I am certain you will find a way."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but promptly closed it, knowing that McGonagall was not the kind to be dissuaded. Or disappointed. So she slipped out of the office and walked to her Charms class feeling very out of her depth. Hard-to-find Horcrux hints, and now, harder-to-find-out enemy (ex-enemy?) true colors … this was a very different kind of challenge set before her, and books could not give her answers. Assuming she managed to accost the unapproachable Malfoy, how was she supposed to be congenial to him when he routinely called her 'Mudblood'?

She spent most of Charms racking her brains on how to best handle the situation. During lunch, she snapped out of her reverie as a fork prodded her upper arm. Hermione saw that Ginny was regarding her with curious amusement.

"You have that look of distracted concentration," the redhead said, sticking her fork back into her mashed potatoes. "So no _Eureka_! yet, huh?"

"It's complicated," said Hermione.

"Your life is about to get _worse_. Wait til you have Defense, we had it this morning, and two words: Power. Trip." Ginny rolled her eyes.

Hermione stared at her. _Of_ _course_! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?

"I can see the light bulb has switched on," laughed Ginny. "I just have that effect on people, I guess!"

Hermione smiled too and reached for the potatoes. Her appetite had come back the way it always did when her brain was no longer expending its energy on higher-than-instinct impulses.

>

>

>

Class was already in session when Hermione rushed into the dungeon where Snape had taughtPotions the years before. Malfoy was leaning against the blackboard near the door and pushed it shut behind her, saying carelessly, "Ten points from Gryffindor. Buy a watch, Granger."

Hermione turned pink as she found an empty seat. He was allowed to take away House points? _Behold the power trip_.

Everyone was shifting uneasily under Malfoy's coolly blank stare, so unlike his prior explicit cockiness yet somehow exuding stronger confidence.

"I don't want to be here," he began in a flat voice. "I'm not Potter, out to avenge Evil by training the children of Hope as my private army." He shrugged languidly. "But McGonagall didn't give me a choice, so I'm going to illuminate you innocents on the –ah– 'fearless acts of Deatheathing.'"

A shudder went through the classroom. It sounded so much more up, close, and personal than what they had heard from other teachers.

"Instead of practicing a bunch of shield charms and counter-jinx crap, which my esteemed colleague –" here Malfoy allowed himself a faint derisive smirk –"has already covered, I'll be focusing on the core of Defense Against the Dark Arts … that is, how to resist their seduction."

Malfoy looked at Hermione as he said this, and again, for the briefest of moments, she saw a strange secret smile pass his lips as if he knew something she didn't. Determined not to feel unnerved, she stared right back at him unblinkingly.

"There are lots of ways the Dark Lord holds court over his servants," he continued, drawing out his wand and flicking it so that a black smoky serpent appeared in the air next to him. The class drew back instinctively; Malfoy rolled his eyes. "It's _smoke_, people … and I don't speak Parceltongue anyway." His irritation smoothed into poised calm again as he gestured at the snake. "This is the Dark Lord's emblem –it symbolizes his gift for Serpentry."

Hermione could not help a small startled "_Oh!_" from escaping her mouth. Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "I suppose you're bursting to tell us what this means, Granger … although how _you_ could know …"

"I d–don't," she stammered.

"Come now, _Hermione_," Malfoy taunted. "Don't be shy."

Hermione glared at him. _So that's how you want to play, is it?_ "Serpentry," she said softly and clearly, "is the art of spellbinding by way of snakelike ocular hypnosis: with red eyes, to be exact."

Malfoy looked surprised. "My, _Granger_, I never pinned you as one to quote _Magicke Moste Evil_." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Has Potter been … nosing around in forbidden knowledge?"

Dean, Lavender, Neville, and others' faces twisted toward her, agape. She had to be careful Harry's secret training wasn't exposed … it would just add fuel to the 'Chosen One' rumor and savior image, which he despised …

"Of course not," Hermione spat. "I just happen to have wanted to broaden my theoretical horizons."

"Really? How interesting," said Malfoy, evidently believing her. He gave her an appraising, appreciative glance as he dispelled the snake into wisps. "Detention, for messing around with contraband books."

Hermione gritted her teeth. She had _never_ gotten a detention before in her _life_, and she wasn't about to serve one to _Malfoy_ of all … unless … maybe this was a blessing in disguise: she could use the time to 'befriend' the sneaky little snake.

The scholar in Hermione, as the lesson progressed, had to admit that the sneaky snake was an eloquent lecturer. He covered point-to-point the nature of this complex Dark Art, its effects, and ways to resist its influence. Grudgingly impressed, Hermione wondered for the umpteenth time why Malfoy had seemingly turned over a new leaf in such a shocking manner: true, his mother's death must have disillusioned him from serving Voldemort, but it was quite another thing to actively train his former master's opponents by spelling out word for word the whys and hows of the Dark Lord's power. _It could all be an elaborate scheme_, she mused, _but to what end? What reward would justify such huge exposure risks?_

When class was over and everyone had filed out, Hermione marched up to his desk and asked in the politest voice she could muster if she could reschedule her detention, as she had patrol duty that evening.

Malfoy was gathering his things, not bothering to look up. "No," he said shortly. "Tonight, here, after curfew."

Setting her mouth in a thin line, she slung her bookbag over her shoulder and turned to leave.

"And Granger …"

He finally glanced up, eyes as hard as diamonds.

"Bring the book."

>

>

>

Of all the non-ladylike things she had done in her Hogwarts years –slapping Malfoy, stealing ingredients from Snape's private store, trapping Rita Skeeter in a jar, stomping out of Divination, hexing Ron for snogging Lavender –one thing Hermione had never dreamed of doing was to pinch a book from the place she considered an inviolable temple: the Library.

But she had little choice in the matter now; either stealth against McGonagall or sabotage of Harry. So it was with a quivering hand under her robes that Hermione twitched her concealed wand and mumbled, "_Reducto_," at the burnished leather volume in the Restricted Section. It shrank to finger-length, and, darting surreptitious peeks to her either side, she swiped the miniature Dark Arts bible quickly off the shelf and jammed it into her pocket. Letting a minute or so pass, Hermione strolled casually to the door.

"Always a pleasure to see you dear," Madame Pince called after her.

>

>

>

At eight on the dot Hermione knocked on the dungeon door. When no answer issued she tentatively nudged it open and took a step forward. The room was cold and semi-dark and appeared to be empty. "Malfoy?" she called out uncertainly.

"Don't fret, I'm here," came the drawling voice she knew so well.

_Ah! He's sounding like himself again: egotistical and sarcastic_. Draco Malfoy was at his desk again but this time, sitting on it, with feet planted on the seat of a chair in front. _Reminding me of the authority border _–her eyes rolled skyward –_and wanting to look down at me._ _What a Caesar complex!_ As she approached she noticed he looked different than he had in class … more casual, relaxed. His school robes were flung over the chair; he had his shirtsleeves rolled back and his green-and-silver tie slightly loosened. The white-blond hair wasn't slicked back as she was used to seeing it, but falling sleekly down in its natural state. Hermione stiffened at her own observation. _What has Malfoy's hair got to do with anything?_

"Reporting for detention, _sir_," she said with heavy sarcasm.

"Sit, Granger." Crossing his arms as he indicated a seat in the front row facing his desk. Hermione woodenly slid into the narrow table row and lowered herself on its bench, dumping her bookbag unceremoniously on the floor beside her. She had never been in such isolated proximity with the Slytherin, and felt undulating waves of dislike shimmering through her; she didn't know how she was possibly going to get through this tête-à-tête without recalling all the rotten things he had said and done to her, Harry, and Ron these six years –from the first moment in the train compartment to his moment of flight with Snape. But McGonagall had made it clear that it was vital to unearth Malfoy's true status so the Order would not be duped into letting another double-agent penetrate the walls of Hogwarts. She would have to overcome the ingrained pattern of acrimony if she really wanted to –ugh– grow friendly with him and break through his act.

As she attempted to crack a civil smile at him, Malfoy was tilting his head and scrutinizing her with a pleased half-smirk. "Your mane has been tamed, I noticed. Much less of an eyesore."

Hermione's smile faded as insult-reaction kicked into auto-pilot. Scathing come-backs danced on the tip of her tongue. _Wait, dolt, that was a compliment_ … _warped, but a positive comment nonetheless_, a girly part of her that was suddenly conscious of her glossy near-waist-length curls, protested. Then her sensible self intervened. _What has his opinion about your hair got to do with anything? Just concentrate on mission: ferret befriendment! _

"Your flattery is priceless, Malfoy," she said good-naturedly, "You always did spotlight my best qualities."

"Your sole defining quality has always been your blood."

Blunt and blasé. Noticing her wince, he added, "I know it hurts you to hear me speak of it. I don't regret that. Because," he suddenly slithered down from the desk and up to her so rapidly that there was only an infinitesimal pause until his next words, which he leaned across to whisper so near her face that her earlobe tingled with the heat of his breath. "I _adored_ every single time I called you Mudblood; it made you react to me. Your reactions were our only interactions … how can I regret them?"

Hermione felt a warm shockwave wash through her nervous system._ He's playacting, get a grip _… she angled her face slightly; it was her first close up of Malfoy, of the clear depth of his eyes, shaded by dusky lashes, and the flash in them so intense that she pulled back with a slight squeak. "Malfoy, back off!"

He straightened up immediately, and took a step backward, placing his palms flat on either side of her tabletop, elbows locked toward his own body. "Why?" he said calmly, the unreadable expression back in place.

"Why _not_?" she rejoined hotly. Something he once said about not wanting to touch her because it would 'slime up' his precious hand flashbacked, and unconsciously she looked down at his hands, or rather, his sinewy inner wrists that he was leaning his weight into. And saw her first live Dark Mark tattoo. Normally sheathed under robe sleeves, it glared at her now from his bare left forearm. Darkly and deeply embossed in the pale, almost translucent skin, marring it like a disfigurement. She took a steadying breath. "Maybe," she said quietly. "Because your presence as Death Eater is undesirable."

Malfoy looked bewildered; then his eyes too dropped to his arm. Defensively pushing away and yanking his sleeve over the Mark to his wrist, he hissed, "You have _no_ idea how it is … !"

"_Is_?" Hermione said sharply, rising, and feeling her cheeks color. "I thought it _was_?"

A split-second silence.

"Don't wet yourself, Granger," he replied, drawl pronounced and cold. "For a mere slip of the tongue … unless," lightning-quick his expression changed into that sultry smile Hermione was beginning, against her will, to find not altogether 'undesirable,' "You'd like us to try?"

Her eyes widened. No boy had dared make so lewd a comment to her. The same impulse to strike Malfoy that she had given into in third year flared up, but was arrested by her Head Girl scruples. Head Girls did not punch, especially not when in detention, even if the 'teacher' was a harassing prick. Head Girls simply … report to the Headmistress.

"Dream on, ferret," she growled, reaching for her bag and removing the book she had re-engorged to its original size. "And remind me exactly _how_ this heart-to-heart constitutes serving detention?"

"It's making you squirm," returned the blond, grinning evilly.

It was true, but Hermione would rather not ask him directly the meaning of his enigmatic behavior: the mood fluctuations from pokerfaced to expressive, the lack of insults (well, almost), the outrageous claim that provoked her in the past to was to evoke her attention, and above all, the disorienting smiles that were traditionally _not_ aimed by Slytherins at non-Purebloods. What kind of mind game was Malfoy playing? Was she getting herself into something she wouldn't be able to handle? Especially since she was alone in it?


	10. Godric's Hollow

― CHAPTER TEN ―

**Godric's Hollow**

>

Saturday dawned overcast and foggy, which suited Harry's plans well, adding a blanket of visibility protection for the scheduled flying trek over Bristol that would take him, Ron, and Moody to Godric's Hollow. Harry didn't know how he would feel upon setting foot in his birthplace (or, his parents' deathplace, depending on how one chose to think of it). For now, there was a knot of expectancy tightly wound in his stomach –he was going home, but _home_ was somewhere he had no conscious memory of; a question mark.

Rolling out of bed and padding barefooted out of his room, Harry wondered how Hermione was getting on at their much-changed school. He personally couldn't envision himself back this year … to pass the gargoyle on the seventh-floor corridor knowing that the spiral stone staircase behind it would not lead up the beautiful, eccentric office Dumbledore had inhabited … dreading Double Potions with the Slytherins when there was no longer an overgrown-bat figure singling him out for testing poison antidotes, nor confrontations with a thug-flanked, hex-happy arch-rival to boost one's adrenaline … Hogwarts would be, well, _boring_ without all that!

Today's _Daily Prophet_ was waiting for him on the kitchen table, along with a mug of steamy black coffee. Since the night Harry had confiscated Kreacher's cache, inexplicably, the house-elf's hatred of his young master had ebbed, or perhaps his innate urge for servitude increased, because now, Kreacher brought in the morning paper and prepared Harry's coffee everyday without having been asked to do so. At first, Harry had laughed it off as an ill-conceived revenge ploy, but after confirming that the beverage was not toxic, he began to enjoy the convenience of this odd ministration. Waking to the aroma of a fresh brew was quite better than being awoken by the sound of Hedwig pecking at his bedroom window.

He scanned the front page headlines, as usual looking for any Voldemort-related news items. Not a word, today. But there had been some bad ones this past week: Ollivander, the renowned wandmaker who had mysteriously vanished last fall, was found dead –with the Dark Mark lingering skyhigh. Also a few Aurors-in-training were reported missing by the Ministry. Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister for Magic, looking more like an aged lion than ever with his grey-streaked shock of hair as he gesticulated from a square frame above the article, had encouraged the wizarding community to adhere to the revised security guidelines, which covered the whole of the next page. _Minister doubles defense squads in Department of Magical Law Enforcement_, his picture caption read, and Harry was relieved that Scrimgeour was doing a better job of protecting his public than had his conservative predecessor, Cornelius Fudge, when coping with the anarchy of the Dark Order.

One fact the _Prophet_ still censored, that Harry had learned of from Mr. Weasley, was that vampires had joined Voldemort's ranks over the summer. Their Ministry-quarantined lair had been found deserted, its guards Stunned, with the Death Eater's signature defacing the Regulation of Magical Creatures departmental seal. _Macnair_, he thought grimly, remembering Buckbeak's executioner who was both Death Eater and ex-Ministry expert on controlling 'dangerous beasts.' Macnair probably had recruited the vampires, and Harry didn't like to imagine the bloodthirsty brutality they could unleash on an unsuspecting community.

The sound of the doorbell clanging roused Mrs. Black's cursing shrieks. _Silencio_, thought Harry exasperatedly as he got up to start down the gloomy hallway toward the landing upstairs. To his wonder, the howls died down at once. Harry grinned to himself. _Getting the hang of this non-verbal spell thing … _He unbolted the heavy, paint-chipped front door and opened it to see the scarred face of Moody and the freckled face of Ron standing on the stone steps outside.

"When are you going to learn to CHECK PASSWORDS, Potter?"

"What's your favorite –" said Harry hastily, but Moody cut him off.

"Get your broom, we're on a schedule!"

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his Firebolt (which he had serviced and polished last night) from the umbrella stand and slipped on a warm windbreaker since he knew from experience that high altitude flights could get freezingly uncomfortable. Closing and locking the door behind him, Harry stepped out into the cool grey morning air.

Immediately, he felt a wand smack him on the top of his head, and as a familiar egg-drip sensation trickled through his body, he saw Moody repeat the Disillusionment Charm on Ron, turning him chameleon-colored as well. "Awesome!" came Ron's voice, though Harry couldn't discern his friend's outline from the background of Muggle houses and garbage bins anymore.

"Get ready for kick off," said Moody gruffly, mounting his own broom. "My lead in triangle formation; stay close; fly hard bearing north. Problems, shoot red sparks. Are we crystal?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, feeling excited. He hadn't flown for ages, and was grateful of this chance afforded them as other transport options were infeasible –Flooing because they weren't sure if Godric's Hollow had a working fireplace, and Apparation due to Harry and Ron's lack of familiarity with the intended 'destination'.

"Positions … GO!"

Kicking off hard from the ground, Harry let the exhilaration of ascent rush through his lungs, his hair, his hands gripping the broomstick handle. After all the magic he had seen and done throughout the years, one of the wondrous parts of being a wizard was still this … this soaring through clouds, weightless with speed, airborne and free … Making a sharp swerve to follow Moody's, Harry could make out nothing of the topography below –all was a whitish blur. A good hour into the flight, in spite of his fleece-lined extra layering, Harry's nose was running and his fingers were numb, and he was more than ready to see the Auror drop into the descent dive.

>

>

>

They had reached a region of rural countryside. The fog was lifting; flying lower and rounding the edge of a steep embankment, Harry glimpsed his first breathtaking, bird's-eye view of his hometown stretched out below.

Deeply sloping grassy hills fell from all sides like the walls of an emerald-green basin, and flattened into a valley where the village of Godric's Hollow could be seen. Smoke was spiraling from the chimneys of clusters of thatched roofs and lopsided cottages, and a dirt road wound its way up through the long thrush upon which they touched down half a mile away.

Harry dismounted slowly, drinking in the sight that he realized another wizard's regard must have beheld with equal thirst sixteen autumns ago, for an entirely different reason. And, for Him, it would have been a nightscape. A black sky over the valley, a brother wand, a whispered _Morsmordre_ . . .

"Potter, you alright?" Moody awkwardly thumped him on the back, jerking Harry back to the clean smell of daylight and innocent green hills. The raven-haired boy nodded, and the electric-blue eye turned to the other teenager, who was squinting in the direction of the unseen-held Firebolt.

"Afraid I can't remove the camouflage; too dangerous," said Moody as if anticipating such a request from his Disillusioned charges. He _Accio_ed their broomsticks over and deposited them with his own by a large rock, casting a Concealment Charm and grumbling, "Elementary safekeeping rules oughta be reflex by now … damn imposter didn't teach a damn thing …"

They started down the road, Moody's solid form limping in fast strides, Harry and Ron discernable only as ripples in shifting air traipsing behind him. Harry couldn't help but notice how –well, _charming_ –his rustic surroundings were, how very different from the drab suburban uniformity of Privet Drive … What would it have been like to be raised here, in a cosy cottage, seeing his parents' faces at the breakfast table every morning instead of dreaming of them in a friendless cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs? Perhaps not having to watch Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore die because of his burden of the past? If it hadn't been for the absurd fixation of a power-crazed madman … not to mention that back-stabbing rat and a certain vindictive, adulterous spy … the Killing Curse was beginning to hum involuntarily in his head … _don't let it become a vendetta_ –Harry stopped, appalled at himself. Hermione was right; he was echoing Voldemort's mindset, giving himself over to … wrath.

An angry voice erupted in Harry's head. _Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!_ Snape, shouting at him in Occlumency lessons, incensed and unrelenting. _Master yourself! Control your anger, discipline your mind!_ Harry squeezed his eyes shut; tried to let the pulsating fury seep out of his veins, to clear his mental soundtrack of that murderous two-word chant … _breathe_ … his eyes popped open again: it wasn't as hard as it had always seemed, to still his thoughts, when he concentrated and consciously willed it. Like mentally directing the non-verbal spell in the morning, it was all about presence of mind.

"Harry … this is it," said Ron in a low voice on his right.

Harry found himself standing at the unhinged garden gate of a house –or rather, what was left of its two-storey skeleton. Isolated at the edge of the village lane, set apart from the other intact Muggle dwellings, it looked as forsaken as Hogsmeade's Shrieking Shack … sans the haunted creepiness. Though in a state of ruin –the stone façade charred; its windows, shattered; the rusty wrought-iron gate exposing a garden choked with an overgrowth of wildflower and scattered with blown leaves –to Harry, the remains of the Potter house had an air of sepulchral grace, like a monument on unvisited memorial grounds.

Without being aware of it his hand had pushed open the half-ajar gate and his feet were crunching on the unkempt gravel path that led to the door of the petite country house. He felt almost in a trance-like state, and when Moody called out something about waiting for him outside, keeping guard, Harry nodded vaguely and continued moving toward that magnetic door … Ron was beside him too, he seemed tuned into Harry's need for silence, whether out of respect for the dead, or for something else that Harry himself could not recognize. He just felt it brewing inside him, getting stronger as he fumbled with the stuck doorknob, stepping back, frustrated momentarily, then impatiently remembering, soundlessly, _Alohomara_, whereupon unused hinges creaked and yielded …

The interior was bare except for dust balls rolling on the wooden floor and cobwebs swaying in the draft let in by gaping windowpanes. If Harry found it odd that his parents' furniture had been removed so that not a vestige of their belongings was left as testimony to what took place on their last night alive –perhaps, signs of struggle, or traces of unfinished activities interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected visitor –then the wide-eyed boy wasn't sparing much thought on the matter. His scar was doing a slow burn, the foreign nameless feeling had intensified to the point it was blocking out his senses, and Harry did not need clues or hints; because he felt suddenly taller, it was nightfall, and he was breathing in quick, excited rasps …

"Uh, Harry … where are you?" Ron sounded alarmed.

Harry hissed his reply in Parceltongue; he heard Ron take a step back with a whimper as if singed by the dark emotion that Harry felt channeling from his scar through his tall, thin, alien body. Whatever he had experienced with Dementors was nowhere near as vivid as what was happening now: Harry could see his own tapered hand pointing an ebony wand at a man who was yelling, "_It's him! Go! Run!_" The man drew out his wand with a blazing desperation behind glasses in his hazel eyes, but Harry was faster. Joy surfaced in a high-pitched scream of laughter even as part of him screamed helplessly in horror, watching James Potter's lifeless form fall back … and Harry was flying up a narrow staircase, scenting his victory … there she was, barring his way to _it_ –it was not imperative she die, she was too weak to stop him, and very beautiful … he could spare her worthless life –"_Stand aside, you silly girl …_"

Lily Potter's eyes were huge brilliant orbs in her blood-drained face as her body shielded a crib behind her. "_Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead_ –"

The insolence of Mudbloods! Harry seethed, advancing on her. She crumpled to her knees, sobbing, begging. "_Please … have mercy …_" Harry laughed coldly, and the other Harry wept while his mother screamed and the baby wailed, and the green light slashed the darkness of the room, and she was prostrate before him, auburn hair fanning the ground …

Harry gazed at the baby boy, and the baby boy gazed back at him, and Harry felt his skin crawl. Vanquish the Dark Lord, indeed! His wand-free hand sought the trophy hidden in the folds of his robes; as his finger brushed its indented engraving, euphoria thrilled through him … _The death of_ _this child, this foretold enemy, will be Lord Voldemort's triumph over Fate itself; thus this kill is worthy for creation _…Harry raised the wand once more ... something flickered and flashed as his lips formed the spell, and then –

"_IMPEDIMENTA_!"

The trance ended. Shaking convulsively, Harry collapsed.

Sight and sound slammed him as though he'd emerged from a blind-and-deaf vacuum. His body was still being racked with spasms, but he dimly registered that it was back to its normal visible color. Ron, also Re-Illusioned, was kneeling over him, shouting his name, slapping him. Behind Ron stood Moody in duel position, wand drawn –and aimed at Harry.

Harry, trying to control his tremors, mumbled weakly, "Watch where you're pointing that thing …"

"Sorry, kid," said Moody, peering at him with his undamaged eye. He stuffed his wand back into his pocket. "You seemed real addled for a moment there."

Harry rubbed the sore spot where the back of his skull had connected with the floor. "Yeah, I was hallucinating." His mind was oddly fuzzy; he wondered if he had a concussion? He couldn't recall what the hallucination had been about. Noticing the other wizards' pained expressions –_treading on eggshells, treating me like fragile glass, again_ –he winced irritably. "What?"

"You almost used an Unforgivable on me," said Ron quietly. "If Moody hadn't arrived in time to stop you …"

Harry stared at him blankly, not comprehending. _Me, curse Ron?_ Then everything came back in a rush: he had been Voldemort, he had seen his parents … their faces as they fought, as they fell … by his hand. _I felt what he felt, inhuman joy and exultant mercilessness … Oh God, I laughed his laughter as they died_ … Harry rolled over and was sick all over the dusty floor.

Ron rubbed his back soothingly, muttering '_Evanesco_' at the mess.

_Almost … killed … Ron_ … He retched again as the meaning hit home. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shutting his eyes against the nausea. "I didn't –I couldn't –"

"Don't be thick," said Ron in a tight voice. "I mean, I've no idea what was going on, but, I know _you_ wouldn't ever, well …"

_Hurt people, that it to say, but for my predisposition for possession by the most evil wizard in existence_. Harry could hear the unspoken question hanging in Ron's trailed off words.

"D'you wanna talk about it?" Moody's tone was less rough than habit.

For a moment Harry considered saying no; he was tired of explaining, tired of feeling like an exhibition at a freak show. Yet Ron deserved to know, Moody was a professional, and they were both looking at him not with pity but with deep empathy. He returned their gazes listlessly.

"I relived the night of my parents' murders."

"How is that possible?" Ron said quickly. "You were only a year old! It must have been your subconscious playing tricks on you like with the Dem –"

"From –from inside Voldemort."

Ron choked out an incredulous four-letter swear word. Moody rolled his magical eye to the ceiling and Harry though he heard him utter a prayer.

"But Harry –" began Ron at last, after a long, reluctant silence.

"I know, Ron, I'm asking myself the same question," said Harry, getting to his feet. They were in a small second-floor room, empty like the rest of the house downstairs, though Harry had seen a crib in the corner … He walked to the window, leaning his forehead on the paneless frame, and speaking to the misty emerald hills outside. "What is Voldemort's memory doing in my head?"


	11. Crouching Lion, Hidden Dragon

― CHAPTER ELEVEN ―

**Crouching Lion, Hidden Dragon**

>

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, on a squashy armchair before the roaring fire, with her customary pile of books and fresh-scented parchment sprawled out on the table before her. She had been studying non-stop for the past –she glanced at the watch she had recently acquired –five hours since dinner, and could do with some refreshment and fresh air. It was late, far past curfew; but tomorrow was Saturday so she could sleep in, and she wanted to get her Arithmancy essay done tonight. _That way I can devote my whole weekend to Ravenclaw-Gryffindor quality library time_.

There were only a few people still up, two fifth-year boys engrossed in a game of Wizard's Chess in a corner (reminding her fondly of another pair), and Romilda Vane lounging on a sofa with her new boyfriend, McLaggen. _Great match_, Hermione thought dryly, as she started up the dormitory stairs to her Head Girl room at the top of Gryffindor tower. Its oaken door featured a plaque with her name engraved on it, and though the room was modest, just big enough for a four-poster and an armoire, it was nice to have privacy. _Not that I need any_ … an image of Viktor Krum's darkly brooding visage arose briefly: her first and last kiss. An inelegant and rather chaste meeting of lips, on the lakeshore by the Durmstrang ship, right after he had asked her to write to him. _No wonder I was spiteful at poor Ron_. _He was the better student in Snog 101. _She still maintained correspondence with Viktor, but it had turned platonic; he was seeing a Scandinavian veela-witch, and she was not really wooed by the Byronic gloom thing anyhow.

Hermione pulled on a Hogwarts-crested jumper and carefully took out the Marauder's Map from its hiding place between the pages of _The Wizard World Atlas_, Harry's gift for her seventeenth birthday. She then headed back out downstairs, keeping the map folded under her arm until she had crawled from the portrait hole to the corridor outside. Poking the Map she muttered, "_I solemnly swear that I am up to no good._" Technically, this was untrue, since prefects were allowed to roam the school after hours, but it was handy as it revealed those who _shouldn't_ be night-prowling. After checking that all was in order (Filch and Mrs. Norris, yes, Peeves, not nearby, McGonagall in her quarters, Friday patrols at their posts), she set off towards the underground passage ending in a painting of a silver fruit-bowl that giggled when she tickled its green pear.

As founder and chairwoman of S.P.E.W., Hermione felt a bit guilty that she hadn't looked in on the kitchen house-elves yet this year, and was glad to find most of them asleep on little cots lining one side of the huge room. Those awake, however, were as enthusiastic and attentive as ever, rushing over with a large milk-and-cookies tray. She gently chided them for not taking rest ("Oh, but who would be serving Miss midnight snackings when Miss is hungry?"), and too tired to argue, settled for a firm thank-you. Leaving the tiny curtseying elves (–sigh– _slaves_), Hermione carried her plate and glass upstairs, crossed the empty, torch-lit Entrance Hall, and headed outdoors to the courtyard to sit in her favorite on-campus spot. She would come here in her O.W.L. year to watch sunrises to calm pre-exam jitters: a wide stone alcove under an east-facing archway that overlooked the grounds extending to Hagrid's cabin and the Forbidden Forest.

The courtyard was deserted; it was a moonless night with a cool wind that lifted her hair refreshingly as she climbed up on her ledge. Setting the plate beside her, Hermione leaned into the column, took a sip of the warm chocolate milk, unfolding her legs out luxuriously –and spluttered as her feet touched a solid something in the alcove's shadowed recess.

"Insomnia, Granger?"

Malfoy's black-clad silhouette materialized out of the darkness as he leaned forward from the column on the opposite side of the ledge against which he was seated, one leg dangling down and the other bent at the knee (which was the one Hermione had collided with and now quickly retracted from, wiping her mouth angrily as she recognized the owner of the voice).

She had not been alone Malfoy since their disastrous detention. He had spent the remainder of that session testing her familiarity with Dark theory (fortunately, her photographic memory had supplied her with just enough from her skim-through of Harry's _M.M.E._ copy in the summer to satisfy his inquisitiveness), concluding that her interest in seeking Dark Knowledge was 'paradoxically bold _and_ un-Gryffindor.' She then corrected him to the fact that her intentions were 'purely academic'; he dangerously warned her not to 'patronize' a Malfoy; she snapped something about the illustrious Malfoys as 'minions' … and things downspiraled from there, curtaining on shoulder-shoving out the door on Mudblood-Ferret terms.

So Hermione was surprised to hear him back on a surname basis.

"Oxygen and sugar, _au contraire_," she answered, raising her glass.

"And I, for solitude," said Malfoy. "On which you've so gracelessly stampeded."

His tone was mild, almost lazy. Hermione couldn't help a curled smile, then caught herself, then, remembering her aims, relaxed into it again. Malfoy had barely acknowledged her presence in classes this past week, and though not one to shirk from duty, she had been unable to come up with a way to cross the chasm into Slytherin territory. It was a 'mission impossible' –short of sauntering up to his table and suggesting that she dine with him, which would probably have resulted in a dinner-knife wound …

Thus, failing to check the Map just now could be construed _not_ as a lapse of 'constant vigilance' so much as a Felix Felicisesque serendipity …

"Solitude is overrated," she said, affecting a small sigh.

"Missing your beaus?" Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. "Did Potty and the Weasel finally admit they're gay and run off to a Sodomite colony?"

"Did Crabbe and Goyle sprout brains and die of shock?"

"Touché," he said easily. Without asking, he reached over and took a madeline from her plate. When he had finished it, he looked away and added, "And tact … for not making it about my mother."

Hermione stared at him. Had he so little faith in people, to except such a low blow? For her to be witty about his deepest loss? She restrained an instinctive impulse to touch his hand. "I –I would never."

He glanced up at her sharply. "Above retribution, are you?"

"Malfoy, it's not about my integrity," she said, a bit breathlessly, shocked that he wasn't grasping the gross underestimation of human instinct for compassion. Her eyes bore into his. "It's about yours."

Something unidentifiable flicked in the pale gaze before he lowered it; then the full-blown patent smirk that she hadn't seen for a long time, made its debut. "Deep, Granger. I've come over all shivery and you look pretty starry-eyed … I suppose you'd like me to kiss you now?"

She shook her head disbelievingly. "You know, your ego lives up to Narcissa's name."

Malfoy was unfazed. Hermione knew that he knew she meant it as a truth about his narcissism, not an insult to her memory. He shrugged, "Yes, and you can't deny my looks take after my father's name."

Luciu –? she thought in confusion. Oh_ … luscious. _Luscious! well … she looked at Malfoy critically. His well-cut robes accentuated a lean build, and in the nighttime absence of light, his silver-blond hair gave off a sheen almost like a halo, contrasting with the icy-smoky shade of grey eyes as it fell in soft waves around the angular cheekbones and flawless skin … _Why did they name him dragon_, her analytical mind wondered idly, _when he looks like an angel? _The resurrection of an arrogant smirk dragged her back to reality. Eew, no. Smirk, sneer, Dark Mark, pureblood-manic, possible spy, **enemy** …

"My turn," said the Slytherin quietly.

"What?"

He nudged her leg with his knee. "To ogle."

_What _the _hell_? Malfoy _flirting_? When he had made it clear that he _loathed_ the idea of touching Mudbloods … was he mocking her? A new, more ego-bruising way to insult her? _Why am I nervous?_ Hermione tried to ignore Malfoy's eyes traveling slowly, intently over her body … _be cool. It's just Ferret-boy getting his sick kicks_ … but when he reached her face there was no trace of mockery on his own. For a moment, Hermione had the hallucination that she was laying eyes on Draco Malfoy for the first time. There was – loneliness –under all that veneer of overconfidence; naivety, beneath the carefully groomed 'worldly' exterior. But then the mask was back and he was the boy who had wanted to send flowers to whomever had given her a black eye. _Malfoy's a Malfoy_._ His father's son. Family title, **mal foi**:_ _evil faith_._ Voldemort-worship, in fact_. _And a passion for the Dark Arts. Don't let the 'I'm so lost' act fool you. _

"And?" Hermione said, tilting her chin up. "Do I look 'muddy' or what?"

He made no answer.

Then again, she could play him right back: feign _falling_ for the act. What better way to penetrate his defenses than to let him think he had penetrated hers? She would out-Slytherin him.

Another night. Tonight was progress enough. And it was two in the morning. "I'm going up," she said curtly, pushing off of the ledge. "It's late."

Malfoy nodded, wrapped in silence.

>

>

>

>

The next morning Hermione woke up with a headache. She had slept badly, dreaming odd, fleeting montages of being lost in the Forbidden Forest, playing Quidditch with Malfoy, and receiving flowers from a purple-eyed Krum … _I don't need 'The Dream Oracle' to know this isn't a good sign_, she mused while taking a long, hot shower in the prefects' bathroom, but even the eucalyptus aromatherapy steam didn't assuage the dull throbbing in her temples. Disgruntled, she walked into the Great Hall for a late lunch, and spotted mail waiting for her, care of Neville Longbottom who was attempting to flag her down with it.

"Hermione," he said brightly. "From our DA teacher!"

"Malfoy?" She glanced at the near-empty Slytherin table.

Neville gave her a mortified look. "Harry!"

"Right, of course," she said with a feeble smile as she took it from him. "Thanks."

_News from the sane world_, she thought gratefully, unfolding the letter. It wasn't news, however, but a laconic line:

**Common room fire, 12:00 tonight**.

Something bad must have happened … Hermione felt her the hammer in her head beat harder … Well, there was only one cure worth trying left. She drained her coffee and rushed to the library.

>

>

>

>

Ramakrishna, Rasputin, Ravel … _Ravenclaw_. Hermione's finger stopped on the yellowed page in _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. She scanned the paragraph; usual statistics: the family's origin in Camelot, intermarriage with other aristocracy, Orders of Merlin received, Rowena one of the Founding Four at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, et cetera, et cetera … Then, the sensationalized short biographies of a son martyred in the Giant Wars, a daughter disowned for eloping with a half-breed, a child prodigy who graduated the Academy of Sorcery in Switzerland at age fifteen but threw away a brilliant future by becoming a creature-rights activist … Hermione's eyes widened. Oooh! She strained to make out the features of the young girl in the accompanying picture.

Ligeia Ravenclaw had midnight-black hair and large dark eyes that gave her an aura of mystery, but she also seemed vivacious, smiling broadly and toying with a fine chain around her slender neck. Hermione checked the date of birth … _she might still be alive_, she thought excitedly. _I would love to meet her and ask her advice on_ –_on_ –the word 'elf unions' died on her lips as a phrase jumped at her from the footnote beneath Ligeia Ravenclaw's photo. _On the_ **_Amulet of Avalon_**?

For according to the book, that was precisely what hung on the fine chain worn by the great-great … grand-daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw.

>

>

>

>

Hermione's headache had evaporated to be replaced with a frenzied restlessness for the hours to go by until she could tell Harry about her hunch. Looking up the amulet had verified that it was indeed an heirloom handed down through the line of female Ravenclaws, and a prized magical antique both as a semi-precious jewel and as a powerful talisman against fatalities. She was so certain these qualities would have drawn Voldemort like a moth to a flame, that she was willing to bet her –er– maidenly virtue on it … with Mundungus Fletcher.

She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the castle, walking off her surplus steam. She wished she could pay a visit to Hagrid but his place was off-limits now … so instead, she visited Sir Cadogan's portrait in the North Tower, half-tempted to ascend the silvery ladder to Professor Trelawney's attic for a spot of crystal-gazing … _O clairvoyant Orb, reveal to me where art the amulet Horcrux_ … Hermione harrumphed at the memory of being told by the old fraud that she had 'a mundane mind,' which had really, more than anything else, caused her to snap and drop Divination. But the prediction about Wormtail … the lightning-struck tower … _No_, she reflected firmly. _Nothing is Written_.

By dinnertime she was ravenous, having skipped two meals, and all but attacked the lamb chops and Yorkshire pudding. Her gusto provoked nostalgic puppy-eyes from Nearly Headless Nick and lifted eyebrows from Ginny, who declared, "Ron would be proud!" Nodding over the rim of her pumpkin-juice goblet, Hermione shifted her focus across the room to the table where Malfoy sat at one end by himself. He looked drawn and paler than usual, and seemed uninterested in his food, preferring to frown down into the goblet clasped in his hands. _What's eating **him**_? She watched as he pushed away the untouched plate and trudged out of the Hall.

Weird.

Later, upstairs in her room, to kill time, she took out her favorite quill (the peacock-feathered one reserved for 'special' transcriptions) and began copying excerpts from the book she had checked out earlier onto a scroll. _Vita Merlini_ –The Life of Merlin –alluded to the Amulet of Avalon thus:

>

_From time immemorial, the Isle of Avalon, in the Summerland (Somerset, England), has been home to nine Faerie Queens skilled in the magical arts of creation and death. It was here that Merlin came with Arthur (Muggle title; 'king') and a hand reached out of the water and offered him the sword Excalibur. Its power of invincibility sheilded Arthur well throughout his life, and he returned to Avalon to die. He was ferried to the enchanted Isle by the ruler of the Faerie Queens, Morgan le Fey Morgan the Fate; Morgana; Mother Death, who took from Excalibur's jeweled hilt one blood-red garnet before casting the sword back to the waters. It is said that this gem carriesis gifted with a sheathagainst mortal wounds; it is the only known surviving Amulet of the Merlinic era …_

>

Hermione, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up from her writing at the _tap-tap_ sound of beak against glass. She saw a magnificent eagle-owl soaring away as she leaned over to open the window; there was a letter lying on the sill. Mystified, she took it and closed the window. Night mail was rare; and she didn't recognize the waxy seal on the unaddressed envelope. As she made to slit it open, it unsealed itself and a sheet of vellum fell to her lap.

_**Granger,**_

_**Meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight. I need to talk to you about what happened there.**_

It was unsigned, but you had to be blind to miss the silver DM monogram.

>

>

>

**A/N:** To all who have read this far, thank you! I changed the story title becausethe phrase _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_ ('never tickle a sleeping dragon')can be considered the **epigraph** of the whole HP septology:Harry is the sleeping dragon that Voldemort made the mistake ofprovoking ...sinceJK's seventh book will be the 'climax' ofthismagical series, I thought its best toname my version afterthis Latinproverb, todenote 'where it all began' ...


	12. Malfoy vs Draco

―CHAPTER TWELVE―

**Malfoy vs. Draco**

>

Damn. _Midnight?_

Hermione Granger stared at Draco Malfoy's request and wished that she had not relinquished her little golden hour-glass … a twirl of which would have extricated her from the thorny position she now found herself in. Stand up Harry, or Malfoy? She desperately wanted to know what had happened to her friend, and to see his smile when she recounted her Ravenclaw breakthrough. Equally enticing, was the dream chance of hearing the (_ex_?)Death Eater's confession. And either party would get suspicious if she came up with excuses to cancel … whose anger could she risk?

Friends always had priority …

She had an oath to uphold.

>

>

>

>

The architecture of Hogwarts castle as per the Marauder's Map betrayed sheer genius on the part of Johann Roland, the world-famous designwizard who had dreamed up its idiosyncrasies: one of which Hermione was now blessing him for as she crept along the secret passageway linking an indoors niche to the outlying Astronomy Tower. Having never used this route (and not having needed to, as access to the tower was formerly not banned), she was not sure where exactly it would wind up, but by the eventual sharp grade of the path she imagined that it ascended in circles parallel to the tower staircase. At last, her wandlight illumined a rock wedged at the tunnel's end, and before intoning the spell to roll it aside, she murmured '_Nox._'

Clearly she wasn't alone in her foresight that light might draw attention through the open-aired ramparts of the round room: Malfoy was waiting in a greenish-hued glimmer diffused from his Hand of Glory –he jumped slightly upon seeing her, and demanded loudly, "How did you – "

"_Magic_, Malfoy," she said, smirking. "You know, that extra-Muggle phenomena we study here …?"

"Oh, joy," returned the cross-armed boy sardonically. "Outshined by my star student in stealth _and_ satire."

"How come I can see in here?" Hermione asked, trying to ignore the oddly pleased sense his praise of her class status had effected. She pointed at the shriveled bone-arm grasped in his fist. "I thought it gives light 'only to the holder'?

"That, Granger, would be," said Malfoy, lifting cool brows. "_Advanced_ magic." He took a step forward and set the object down on a telescope stool, wiping his hand absentmindedly on his trouser leg afterward, as though it felt unclean. He added brusquely, avoiding her eyes, "A souvenir of …"

"The last time you used it, yes," said Hermione in her iciest tones.

His shoulders slumped a little, and she saw his eyes move across the empty room, fixing point-blank on a spot by the ramparts at the end. "There's nothing much to say … about that night."

He sounded unapologetic; sulky, even, as though being accused of gate-crashing another of Slughorn's parties –she recognized the same symptoms of … embarrassment. _He's ashamed. How quaint._

"Shame doesn't cut it, sorry," she said scathingly, flaring up without preamble. By his open-mouthed look he was taken aback at her sudden reaction and accurate assessment. "You need to feel real _remorse_ –you need to – " she thought of Dumbledore's white tomb at the bottom of the lake, she thought of everything that was shattered, missing, and felt livid and embittered –"to get down on your knees, and _remember_," her voice trembled with hot anger as she stepped in and seized his left arm, sliding the sleeve up roughly and jabbing at the exposed tattoo. "What THIS means, joining Voldemort's sick cult, and the choice you made to help kill a man who was trying to protect you even as you –"

"Stop!" Malfoy exploded, pushing her violently up against wall behind them and clamping his free hand over her mouth. "Hermione, _please …_"

And he took his hand away and brought his mouth down on hers, hard.

She couldn't breathe or think or struggle or fathom anything beyond the sensation of his weight crushing warmly against her body, his arm that had snaked around her waist, the pressure of their parted lips together, the wet tongue twisting slowly around hers–

Shocked, Hermione wrenched her head aside. "_What do you think you're doing_!" she gasped out, glaring at him as best as she could from this foreshortened distance.

Malfoy was breathing hard, and in the green-suffused dimness, she saw a dusky blush rise in his face, staining it painfully, as if it hurt him like a burn. Feeling her own skin scorching with indignity –and, well, whatever else it was –she sidestepped him and said in a furious whisper, "Is this what you asked me up here for? A private lesson in the Dark Art of 'Breath Eating'? Or, rather, a replay of attempted murder_ –by suffocation_?"

"Don't pretend you didn't like it," he said smugly. "You've been reduced to breathy blushes and bad puns."

"You're impossible," she huffed, turning from him and stalking toward the concealed entrance of the secret passage. It didn't matter if he learned of its existence, or the map's, for that matter –right now, all she wanted was to escape his offending presence. Drawing her wand, she muttered, "Don't know why I even bother."

With two long strides he had caught up with her and, grabbing her shoulders, spun her around to face him. "Don't turn your back on me, Granger," he said, eyes glinting. "And incidentally, why _do_ you bother? Why agree to meet me for an illicit rendezvous in the middle of the night, when you haven't given me the time of day throughout your entire –" his voice was cuttingly cynical. "_Hogwarts_ _career_? Furthermore," he tightened his vice-like grip as she wriggled to prise herself away. "Might you not ask why _I_ bother? In fact, don't _your_ motives arise exclusively from nosiness regarding _my_ motives?"

Hermione paused squirming long enough to give Malfoy the benefit of her most self-righteous, scoffing expression. "I thought it was made perfectly plain in your note, that you were supposed to explain yourself about that nig –"

"I'm not stupid, Hermione," Draco hissed. He was positively bruising her now. "Nor do you lack intellect, as you so admirably flaunt in class … so don't insult either of us. You know what I mean."

"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me," she snapped, raising her wand in warning. "I don't fancy a chat while being manhandled."

He released her immediately. The circulation returning, she massaged her sore arms. He began pacing the width of the circular room, then stopped, and shot her a piercing look. "Well, are we to speak openly with each other?"

What a question. The crux of the matter, essentially: candor or cunning; which was the trump card? If she showed him her hand, would it lull him into doing likewise? _My task for the Order of the Phoenix is to discover whether you're still on a soul-selling contract signed to Voldemort. _A step toward mutual confidence could be the key to unlocking his closet of skeletons … or it could open Pandora's Box, letting all hell loose.

"I can _hear_ the wheels whirring in your transparent Gryffindor brain," said Draco in a bored voice. "Leave the masterminding of sly nefarious plots to me … just answer the question."

Compromise, she decided. Midway between truths and untruths.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Let's talk straight."

"Agreed," he said, holding out his hand.

_I cannot believe I'm making a pact of honesty with the Slytherin prince of deceit, _she thought as she acquiesced to the proffered handshake. _Merlin help me_.

"So, you start." Conjuring two chairs, he seated himself in one and waved her into the other. Almost as an afterthought, he suggested, "Shot of Firewhiskey to break the ice?" and conjured two scotch glasses and a decanter filled with bronze-coloured liquor.

"No, thanks," said Hermione, thinking of the poisoned brew he had smuggled in last year that had mistakenly been imbibed by Ron.

"They say alcohol is the only true truth serum," he shrugged, raising his glass and knocking back his drink. "I thought we could toast our newfound truce … ('_Aguamenti_' drawled, imperiously, to the decanter) "Unless …you don't trust yourself?"

"Fine," she said crossly. If not innocuous, the drink was clean at least. She accepted a half-filled glass and took a guarded sip, feeling the fiery liquid burn its way down her throat and dissolve into a pleasurable warmth inside her. "Mmm," was her muffled consent to a refill. After the second round, she blurted, "What's your angle, in playing nice?"

White teeth flashed in a sphinx-like smile. "Ladies first."

"You already guessed," Hermione said. "I'm here to find out why you are. Back at school, I mean."

"Because you don't believe that I've defected," he stated calmly, flicking his wand at her empty glass.

She sipped mutely; he scowled.

"I never pretended to join your people –" he nodded at her wide-eyed unsaid query. ('Of _course_ I know you're in with the Phoenix lot, what do you think we discussed at Dark Order forums?') –"and I never retracted my admitted respect for Dark Arts –McGonagall's throwing it in my face, and you see me putting up with it like a good little reformed Death Eater, don't you? In exchange for protection. Not out of Potterish machismo, not as tribute to Dumbledore's memory, and most certainly not from a change of heart on the issue of blood supremacy … my sole noble aim: unadulterated selfishness of survival."

"So you're still prejudiced against Muggle-borns?" Hermione knew she was digressing, but she had to know.

Grey eyes darkened. "I can't condone wizardicide anymore," he said tersely. "But as heir to the Malfoy name, it's my duty to keep the line pure … therefore I socialise with the, er –'right sort,' as Father would say."

At this the boy suddenly fell silent, and Hermione had the impression that he was mentally recoiling from the thought of said sire. The whiskey was making her light-headed, and she wondered aloud, unthinkingly, "How did it happen? Your mother –?"

Draco filled his fourth glass and finished it in long, fast gulps. It seemed he would not respond, but at last he looked up at her, face flushed. "Lucius had to pay for losing the prophecy and some –important book, or something. And for wasting time sitting in prison. His punishment was … blood sacrifice. Very ritualistic, very primordial … with an alter, and a black veil, and a knife." He gazed at the prismatic rays glittering off the decanter crystal. "My penalty, for failing the assassination mission, was to watch."

She didn't offer words of comfort because she knew they would sound hollow. But her face crumpled, and to hide it she drank. Unnatural silence permeated the air; the way to break it was to continue questioning, even if it was a question she knew the answer to … she needed to hear it firsthand.

"You … didn't kill Dumbledore?"

"Couldn't." He was speaking with a slight slur now. "I stood right –over –there," he gestured at the tower door. "'Not a killer,' he said … guess the mad old coot was right."

"Why didn't you take his offer of protection?"

His half-lowered lids flew open. _Uh-oh. Wrong question_. "You said this before," he accused in a low voice. "How, _exactly_, do you know what was said in this room?"

"Harry was there," she said, the look in his eyes telling her it was unwise to lie. Also, her mind felt far too woolly to fabricate alibis. She chuckled. "The invisible eye."

"Second broom ... Potter, naturally," the Slytherin sneered, but the sneer seemed half-hearted. Or just, not sober.

The room had become toasty warm and Hermione peeled off her jumper. What else to ask?

"Why did you …" Hermione narrowed her eyes, focusing. "Run away with Professor Snape?"

"Severus Slape is a bastard," slurred Draco. "Made Mother an umbrable vow … that I'd stay – alive, y' know? –well, wouldn't work out for him if he … returned to Vord-ah, – y' know, the Dark Vold –alone."

"I always …" she struggled to form the thought into words. "Felt that … Snape … was," His image eluded her. "Cruel to be kind, somehow? Dumerdore believed in him …"

"He hired Kwurill, too." Draco yawned. "And that wolf, and the giant, and a psycho. Staffing not … his best power."

"Lupin was …"–this was important, she _must_ remember, she must explain –"BEST Defense teacher wehad!"

Draco's wand-arm, dangling as he slumped down in his chair, moved lethargically, and her chair was flying forward, scraping the floor, crashing against his, knocking it over, and he caught her as she fell onto him, limbs tangled as they toppled to the floor, and Hermione found herself sprawled face-down over a laughing Draco down who leaned in with a mix of Firewhiskey and cologne scenting his murmured, "Better than me?"

Movement had finally given Hermione a clue to her extent of drunken vertigo. Pushing up with palms flat on the wooden floor on either side of the blond head below hers, she half-lifted her body, dizzily poised over him. She felt she ought to be indignant, and she attempted to fix the –_sneaky snake_, her brain supplied –with a suitably withering look, but her vision was blurred and all she could focus on, while inhaling the heady cologne, was that taunting mouth, mere inches away, and she wanted to _wipe the smirk off_, _yes that's it …_ Brushing her lips against the soft warmth, she was conscious of hands fastening on her hips, pulling her deeper into the kiss, and her own fingers curling in sleek hair, and this time she welcomed the sinuous wetness of his tongue and then he was on top, pinning her down and soon she was moaning his name. Now, irrevocably, … Draco.

>  
>  
>  
>

>

**A/N:** _Johann Roland -- _yes, thanskgiving to a cameo JKR!

sorry if the kiss scenehappened too fast, but Draco's on a deadline, and Hermione ... well ...she's, er,just drunk? (I knowthat sounds terrible, but I promise it will get 'romantic' later on! don't shoot me!)


End file.
